In Which We Are Livin La Vida Gato

 

I am awash in cats.

A year ago in April, I adopted the eighth cat I have lived with and named her, obviously, Octavia.  It turned out Octavia and I have a lot in common; we are both cranky old ladies with bad arthritis and a passion for snacks.  When I first brought her home, she approached her new living situation with admirable caution.  She made a beeline for under the bed in the guest room and stayed there.  I was willing to not force the issue and let her come to me in her own good time.  She ate and used her box (the benchmarks I use for if a cat is okay) when I was out or sufficiently unconscious.  After a couple of weeks I decided maybe we should be more friendly and that's when I discovered her fondness for snack products.  I lured her out from under the bed by rattling a bag of cat treats.  That got her attention.

Once she associated me with snacks, she decided we were going to be best friends and after I got her some steps to make getting into bed easier on her stiff joints, she joined me up here regularly.  It was very sweet.

Then a year ago, the much missed Super Agent Fred died and I inherited his cat, Toby, aka The World's Most Sweetest Cat.  I quarantined him in my bathroom to let him get used to this brave new world, a setup he immediately protested against because he wanted to hang out with me.  So sweet.  Octavia also protested against the setup, but only because she opposed another cat in her space.  Her exact words were, "Nope, I'm out," and she retreated back to her fortress of solitude under the bed. 

It was a situation that left me very unhappy.  I had adopted Octavia specifically because I was looking for a senior cat so that I could provide a more comfortable space than a cage and a kennel for her to live out her last whatevers.  Just as a side note, Octavia has scuttled that high-minded plan, once she became ensconced and living on a diet of fancy wet food, she has thrived.  She has made it very clear she plans on outliving me.  But still, I was very conscious that just as she had really settled in comfortably, Toby appeared and really upset her. 

It took months for her to start to tentatively interact with this interloper.  Toby's approach to the world is Let's Be Buddies and everyone is immediately his best friend.  He simply could not understand why Octavia was so chilly and hostile.  But eventually she warmed to his charms and now she lets him very enthusiastically groom the back of her head.  He also likes to groom the back of my head, for that matter. 

As you see in the picture above, they have both now decided my bed is our bed.  Toby regularly snuggles up next to my side with his head on my shoulder which has to be the most adorable thing since cats were invented. Octavia also likes to settle in next to me.  If she gets here first, Toby will climb over one or both of us to jam himself in between her and my armpit so that I find myself at the bottom of a pile of cats as I just try to watch the news on PornHub.  Also, both of them will only settle down on my left side so that I am between them and the door.  Obviously, they are privy to inside information about the zombie apocalypse and they have decided that when the undead inevitably burst in, me and my luscious brains will provide a distraction for the cats to make their getaway.  Ingrates. 

Speaking of pussy:

Coach's favorite.

What lovely, luscious balls

Everyone who has ever lived with a cat knows the exasperation of asking them "In or out?"

ME: How big is it?

HIM: 7 frosted and 1 plain glazed

ME: On my way

Absolutely asstastic

Daddy says it's spanky time.

In Which We Ponder the peenee Life

 

The latest chapter in my unauthorized autobiography.

My cat Toby was lying all snuggy next to me when he started to make that gagging urpey sound so familiar to cat owners everywhere.  "Don't you puke on me," I told him very sternly.  So he got up and went  down the bed to puke on my foot, which was a compromise, I guess.  I guess?  Anyway, as I was cleaning everything up, the whole sorry fiasco led to me singing "Don't puke on me Argentina. . . ." which I thought was funny, but not funny enough to make up for cat puke on my foot.

You may be surprised to learn that my name is not actually peenee, but these days, my government name pretty much only gets used on the address of all the junk mail I receive.  Indeed, the gang of miscreants I hang out with over on Chaturbate only call me peenee.  Anymore thinking about the name my mother bestowed on me in a fit of whimsy seems quaint and removed from me and I sort of think myself actually as peenee.

And speaking of Chaturbate (all the hip kids shorten that to simply CB,) my dear CB buddy Brainiac and I were recently discussing our experiences with ketamine therapy.  It's nice to have someone to talk to about this who understands the indescribable experience of the Sacred K Hole.  Friends with whom I have try to share these trippy details have one and all obviously decided I am simply a crazy old man.  And I am, but I'm also right about how profound ketamine can be. 

Artist's recreation of mrpeenee confronting the drug goblin urging special k on him.

Anyway.  Cats and drugs and Chaturbate chums, it's a sweet life.  You know what would make it sweeter? More naked guys: 

Let us all pause to remember the boys of summer and their butt-pussies.

I understand in less fortunate parts of the world, it is already snowing.  Eeks.

I am staunchily opposed to snow in all its many icky forms.

I was 18 years old before I ever actually saw snow in person and that was OK with me.

The boys at CB all think I am afraid of snow.  That is obviously bullshit; I am simply deeply suspicious of it

I once asked a friend from Chicago what sleet was, since I had only ever read the word.  For a moment, I thought she was going to smack me.

Let us not think of snow, but instead focus on Mike Betts' lovely, lovely buttchops.

In Which We Have News from the Cat House

 

Two weeks ago when we introduced Toby the cat here, I didn't mention that Toby had originally been Secret Agent Fred 's cat.  He moved over here when Fred got too sick to take care of him and now he's my cat.  I'm very glad to have him, but it seems like a sad consolation prize for Fred's death. 

Toby is the world's sweetest cat.  As I write this, he is curled up next to me with his head on my shoulder.  I am overwhelmed with the sweetness.  Sweet, sweet, sweet.  Tout sweet.  When I would visit them, Fred would be lounging in bed and Toby would walk over his face and then lay down on top of his head.  I would always think how glad I was that I never had a cat inclined towards trying to suffocate me.  And now I do.  I just hate cheap irony.

Speaking of introductions, how did the one between Octavia and Toby go?  Not bad, but not the way I expected either.  Toby is younger and bigger than Octavia so I was afraid he might pick on her, but that is not the way this funny old world rolls.  When I opened the door to let them meet each other, Octavia immediately let loose with a string of growls and hisses.  I was shocked at such language from a respectable old widda lady.   

That was a little more than a week ago and things have settled down to a sort of stiff-legged detente.  She is still hissy, but not as implacably.  Toby, on the other hand, just wants to be friends.  His attitude seems to be pretty much "bitch, what is wrong with you?"  As you can see in the picture above, they are willing to hang out in the same room, which is an improvement over the initial hostilities.  Baby steps.  Baby steps. 

Guys, I'd like to hang out with:

I just love humpy boys with blank-eyed expressions.  Intelligence is so overrated.

It's still warm enough for tanning.  Get busy.

He looks like he would be a load of laffs.

Extra beefy.

... and extra firm.

I appreciate how they have roped him and his buttchops off for crowd control, no doubt.

Honey, I think you dropped your parachute.

In Which We Are Further Be-Catted

 

Dudes and dudettes, say hello to our newest kitty passenger, Toby.  Toby is a Leo and he's very fond of stinky cat food, long walks on the beach, and hates his cat carrier.  He is also a very, very enthusiastic digger in his cat litter box, to the point of it being some kind of civil engineering project.

He appears to be constructed out of some super secret, extra heavy cat material since he is only a little bigger than my old cat Saki, but feels like he weighs about twice as much.  How is that possible?  Cats, that's how.  For that matter, Octavia only weighs about 10 pounds but she's able to shed 20 pounds of cat hair on a given day.  How is any of that possible?  

Speaking of Octavia, how is she taking this new interloper?  There's no telling; Toby is currently quarantined in my bathroom and hisses at her when he senses her on the other side of the door.  I'm surprised, Toby is one of the world's sweetest kitties, so maybe he's just still shaken up from being transported.  Octavia just seems sort of befuddled.  She had only just gotten over the fervid excitement of a Diane von Austinburg visit and now this. 

I suppose time will tell, I'm going to leave him in my bathroom until cabin fever makes him willing to interact in a polite manner.  We'll see. 

Alley cat guys:

It's possible this is AI, the background seems sort of scrambled in that AI sort of way.

Diane was taking exception to so many of our naked guys being naked youths.  Not sorry.

Freaky cowboys: where were they when I was a baby gay in Texas?

Markus Bailette and his rump.

The classic Landing Pad pose.

The beefy backside boy.

For all you daddy lovers.