think you’ve seen this before, but here’s the original link (music video of Fatboy Slim’s cover of Steve Miller’s song “The Joker”) along with my interpretation of the video as it relates to the cats at home.
Obi, I think, is the Joker, since he does have a lock-pick and I have observed him taking, without permission, cash from Alice’s purse to fund his nights out on the town. We suspect he uses the money to purchase uncontrolled substances such as catnip and Meow-Mix as well as to buy his way into illegal concerts by Cat Stevens who often sneaks into Miami to jam on SoBe. As some of you may know, Obi has often hitched a ride underneath the family’s SUV to visit friends near and far. Justin and I though, once put an ‘Obi-Cam’ on Obi to see just exactly how Obi catches a ride underneath the SUV. It’s pretty impressive; he first puts on goggles and rain gear, then grasps on to the differential, wraps his tail (all 18 inches of it) around his body, hunkers down, and, with a very determined look, faces forward and gives a ‘thumbs-up’ to the driver. In this video, however, he more wisely chooses to use public transportation.
Luke, we think, may be one of the bouncers at the concert scene. We’ve seen him, late at night, at inner-city night clubs in Miami packing heat and eating raw iguanas. He gives a whole new meaning to the cooking-term “Jerk”, as Luke can de-skin any animal of any size in less than 10 seconds. Less, when he uses two paws. Even less when he swallows them alive. Don’t screw with Luke. If you do, you will either be killed on the spot, or worse, as is my fate, become his slave. He has managed to ‘train’ me to do his bidding, all with simple “one-meow” instructions. More on this later.
Wittles, on the other hand, is one of the “cute” cats you see scampering about with Obi with their night on the town. Not! She’s the cat, what with being agoraphobic, that doesn’t ever leave the house. She was out once, for a full night, back in 1999 and we even filed a missing cat report to WSVN and the North Miami Beach Police Department, as it was such an unusual occurrence. We found her, the next day, on the other side of the fence, crying. I guess she ‘forgot’ how she got over it to begin with, thus confirming our belief of ‘no beauty and no brains either’. Now, if the video provided a basic “olfactory” channel, you would, immediately recognize Wittles, as her urine odor bathes the household like Ammonias-Gone-Wild (dual-set DVD $19.99). And quite distinctively, I should say. She is very un-ladylike as she pees on the wall, standing up and looks forward with a distant, determined and disturbingly, mischievous, look. On the bright side, she is the only cat that doesn’t mind being picked up, petted and fawned over – for hours and hours at a time. We also call Wittles her holy-friggin’ highness. We call her other names when she pisses on the wall. We say these things often.
Starry, who is so big that we think he was born twice, or so we’ve been told, is, without a doubt, permanently “stoned”. We’re pretty convinced of this as he tends to just “fall down” upon being approached and he seems just a little bit ‘too happy’ all the time. However, he does lift weights so that he can beat up smaller cats (those under 400 pounds, anyway) to steal nickel bags of catnip. Starry is so big, in fact, that his “bling-bling” of cat-food can lid-tops appears to be only the size of quarters against his bulked-up chest. Starry is so strong, that he even shoved Alice’s Corvette out of his way once. It was blocking sunlight that was warming him as the temperature, that day, had dipped below 85 and he could either move to a different location, or more easily, move the automobile out of his way. He chose the latter. But as usual, Starry didn’t really think the whole maneuver out ahead of time and so the car, with a little bit of Starry’s extra effort, slid (over) on top of his best cat-friend, “Stripe”, whom we haven’t seen ever since. Go figure. By the way, if you ever wanted to pick up Starry, here’s how you do it. First, you put on a safety-belt so that you don’t get a hernia, and second, don’t reach directly for the cat, instead, reach over to the side, and Starry will fall down directly into your hands (or hand-truck).
You might see “Minners”, aka “Mini” in the video, even though her name is quite the misnomer. She’s the big, fat cat that’s not allowed on the train due to weight restrictions that were, until recently, imposed on South Florida’s fixed-rail system. We believe “Mini” accrued her excessive weight due to near-religious over-dependency on dog food. She also precision times her visits to the cat “meal hall” before all other cats (or dog) arrive, thus requiring Alice and I to pour another 40 pounds of hairball-producing “food” into the feeding troughs. As a side note, it should be noted that Mini successfully sued the Tri-Rail Corporation for infringement of her rights as clearly spelled out in ADA legislation for discrimination against cats with disabilities (and colossal thighs). Mini also has the strange distinction of being the cat that is mostly likely to be ‘over-stimulated’. For example, if you simply pet her once, that is then qualified as being ‘over-stimulated’. If you cross your eyes or stick your tongue at her, she flees remarkably fast, given the 35 pound load she carries beneath her (that’s her belly weight), as her total weight is nearly 50 pounds (post litter-box). Mini might be the first cat in the house to be seen driving a “Little Rascal” one-seater to get around if she keeps this up. Luckily, due to the successful legal claim in “State of Florida vs. Mini ‘Chunky’ Cat”, she can afford to buy two.
Then, there’s “Boo-Boo Tail”. He’s the “bum” cat that you see near the garbage can holding a sign that another cat had to write as Boo-Boo failed the writing section of the Florida “FCAT” secondary-school test. Boo-Boo feigns injuries and handicaps in order to solicit sympathy (and a warm pillow, a cat toy, two cans of food, a gift-card and a clean litter box). Truth is, Boo-Boo never went to Vietnam, Iraq, Hialeah or got hit by a truck. Heck, he wasn’t even admitted to the Cat-Scouts of America as he “didn’t get along with cats his in his own age group”. Clearly, Boo-Boo has his share of problems, but there is indeed nothing wrong with his tail. Don’t give in. Let this damn cat work for a living, for crying out loud. In fact, not only was he not in Vietnam, he’s the very first cat who starts clawing at the windows to be let in because good ‘ol “Mean Pea” is out on the prowl and looking to either pick a fight, or play another dangerous game of “catch the knife” with his sharp claws and Boo-Boo’s tail.
Near the end of the video you get a chance (almost) to see so-called “Sweet Pea”. He’s the cat (unseen) that pushes the hi-grade catnip over the table to Obi (seen, photographed and subsequently busted off-camera). Sweet-Pea’s real ‘hood name’ is “Mean Pea” which doesn’t go far enough to describe this cat’s “mean streak”. Mean-Pea is so mean that he slices up any cat that doesn’t pay up – or – moves out of his way to acquire a nice comfy spot on the carpet in direct sunlight. Mean-Pea is so mean that he calls all the cats by truly derogatory “street” names like “phfft” and “thppft”. I’ve tried taking Mean-Pea to the Cat Whisperer and other Clinical Catologists, but after I arrive with him bound in a leather face-mask and I, bleeding from the cheek, they just lock the doors and call animal control. Mean-Pea then retaliates by taking a “Big Pee” on their office computer and spray paints his gang initials on their front door. I still owe money.
What the video doesn’t show, is what happens when all seven (7), “Yes, David, Seven Damn Cats!” come home. First, you should know it is the time of day that most people would call either the “wee-hours” or, much later, “morning”. However, for these cats, “morning” means 3:47am, then 4:23am, then 5:15am, then pre-dawn, almost dawn, “looks darn dawn to me dawn”, then, rapidly, 6:05, 6:17, 6:27 and then 6:45am. During this most exciting time period which Catologists refer to as ‘transition’ time, the cats are engaged in only two modes of thought: “get inside” and, then, once in, “get outside”. Intermixed, with these two modes of thought, is a much darker thought: “let’s screw around with the guy trying to sleep”.
You see, cat’s unlike most people, really don’t like people. Oh sure, we’re tolerated, but only because we provide a) food, b) a roof, and c) more food. Oh, and cat’s are nocturnal, which means party time begins when you go to sleep. They want in at “morning” so they can stock up on carbs and protein (and in the case of Starry, catnip and steroids) to get them through the really exhausting part of the day, which is napping during daylight hours.
But let’s return to the cat’s concept of “morning”. It arrives with a scratching sound on the glass of the French doors that lead to the backyard patio. The scratching sound is made by first one, then two, then three cats, which all, simultaneously, stand up on their hind legs and scratch both front paws on the glass. Incessantly. Over and over again. They sometimes take a pause to drink some water, as this activity will cause them to perspire out all the party drinks they’ve had all evening. They then continue to do this cacophony of pawing and scratching action until – until “something happens”. Which means that I get up and open the door. Sometimes, however, I like to believe that, unlike the cat’s definition of morning, morning should be a time of deep sleep and a peaceful interlude prior to the rush of the world of work and worry. So, I put another pillow on top of my head to block the sound. The cats however, have wised-up to my tactic and have countered with a highly effective counter-measure. They simply stop once they figured out that I’ve drifted off to sleep and, with remarkable precision, start up again once my grip on the pillow slackens and I have drifted off to sleep – only to be awaken again (it is now only 4:23 am, so this will occur about 7 more times before my definition of “morning”).
There is one cat, however, that doesn’t need to scratch at the French doors to merely conduct the “get inside” or “get outside” transaction. It’s Obi. He merely reaches up, grabs the handle of the door and pulls down. If he wants out, he pushes forward, if he wants in, he (quite impressively), draws back a little bit, and then inserts his paw into a thin slice of opening between door and jam, and pulls the door open. Of course, this only works if I didn’t lock the door, which, in Miami, is probably not a wise thing to do anytime of day or night.
So, since the door is locked the three cats (excluding, the fourth, Starry, because he still hasn’t grasped the concept yet), continue to scratch at the glass with their slightly muffled but still scratchy paw pounding. Add to this now, Obi, who, begins to pull down the handle, but, since the door is locked, the handle springs “ca-click” back. So he tries again, and again and again until “something happens” – like the door being opened by a dumb-ass human that’s allowed himself to be trained by cats.
Add to this now the sixth cat, Luke. When he wants in, or out, he merely meows once in order to make “something happen”. Why? Because this cat’s meow is more irritating of a noise than a sick baby on a 16 hour flight to New Delhi. This cat’s meow is worse than three dozen fingernails being slowly, painfully, drawn down a slate blackboard that hadn’t been cleaned in three years. This cat’s meow can stop an ambulance, derail a train, and misdirect air and sea traffic. It is the loudest, most obnoxious, guttural sound you can possibly imagine outside of the Lord of the Rings.
By the way, the seventh cat, Wittles, being a homebody, is sound asleep, as remember she doesn’t go out to party – in fact, she never goes out at all. Well, sometimes, she bravely takes her anti-depressants and walks a good 10-15 feet away from the door before scampering back into the house, all out of breath and looking much shaken. I have, though, seen her do the “Doo-Doo Brown” dance, once; when she thought no one was looking.
Oh sure, I have fantasies about how to change the “morning news” in this household. It begins with me holding a 6-gallon water gun, opening the door on the cats and screaming, “Say Hello to My Little Friend” followed by cats hauling ass away and me laughing after them. Another fantasy involves sneaking up on them from behind, all stealthy like, and blowing a truck horn at them. Frankly, I’ve been wondering what would happen if I put a mirror on the other side of the door window. What would the cats dream up of for countermeasures?
I’ve been in other rooms in the house, or worse, miles and miles away in a hotel room. I’ll awake (due to my cat training) at 3:47am. I lay there and imagine seeing the frantic and confused looks on the cats as they go on and on trying to make “something happen” at the door be it by meow, door handle or scratching at glass. I see their faces contorted with deep concern that, this “morning”, unlike a regular morning is “different”, that, in fact, “nothing may happen”.
Undeterred, though, the cat’s, through discipline and the unwavering belief that good things happen to bad cats, continue to claw, meow and otherwise break-in to the house. From what I’ve been told, they usually give up after several hours, and then carefully assign each other a specific portal on the home and keep it under constant surveillance.
This strategy always works, as, at some point, a door (or window) will open, and the good times can start all over again. If they can see in and spot someone, they will remain there, glaring at you, and devising a strategy to wake you up. In the case of Starry, this usually means breaking something, albeit accidentally, because he’s a little un-coordinated due to the excessive catnip habit. In the case of Luke, it means he deliberately will shove something off of something else so that it “falls” and therefore “makes noise” resulting in “something happening”. It always works.
So, the big night is over, and, one way or the other, the cats get in. What a sight to see! Imagine having to move out of the way as a torrent of partied-out, hung-over, and in the case of Starry, blurry-eyed, cats rush past you as if this morning was the last morning that Waffle-House was selling scrambled eggs and ham. Starry, being blurry-eyed usually bumps into my leg first, and then continues running into the house, undeterred to experience the high of “being inside”.
They quickly tiger-down all available food sources and sometimes have little “fights” as to who eats first. Starry drinks water out of the toilet, as does the dog and Minners. Obi, drinks water out of the aquarium and, what with him being so smart, the other cats (other than the toilet drinkers) have copied him on this feat. Lately, he’s improved on the procedure, as he now drinks the water that leaves the filter, before entering the realm of fish (and turtles and little bugs that fly around the house).
So, finally, the cats have had their big night out, got themselves onto MTV, nobody got run over by a car, nobody got sliced by Mean-Pea, and nobody got arrested. It’s time to sleep!
Nope, it’s still morning after all (though there is still debate as to what phase of “dawn” it exactly may be), and, so, there might still be some more adventures outside. Meanwhile, I’ve laid myself back to sleep, glorious, fulfilling, dream-filled sleep. After all, it is still dark outside. Ah, sleep, comes quickly knowing full well…. What the heck?
The synchronized scratching, the meow and the door handle are all now employed again – but in reverse. They now want to go outside to see “what’s happening” and screw around some more with “that guy” that they’ve trained so exceedingly well.
