The amazing story of Fluffy the norse

This week, we could read in the daily press that Fluffy, a fluffy feline from Norway, has been identified by her ear marking and delivered back to her owner after 13 years in absentia. We are very encouraged by this bigger than life yet true story. What was most touching was the epistemic hunger evinced by the owner after being reunited with her lost and found feline, Fluffy. So desperate was she to know, how Fluffy had spent the last thirteen years of her life, but Fluffy kept her silence on this matter. Perhaps as time goes by, Fluffy will open up a bit. Anyway, this story is also a reminder to all the missing cat owners out there, that the missing cat may show up most unexpectedly, one fine day. Don't lose sight of your own fluffy feline ferreting its way back towards you from a long walkabout in the wilderness or finally shattering the fetters of wicked captivity. Come home, you lot, we are waiting for you.

Female feline power

Very recently, this very morning to be exact,  we were suddenly struck by a sense of wonderment as to how little, dainty Wimbelina is fending for herself and defending her turf surrounded by three much bigger and meaner males. As so often happens in such cases, there was a specific trigger that unleashed an array of half baked, stored up thoughts and recollections regarding the matter at hand. I was skype-chatting with Ilanke about her own cat, Kika, that is now lodging on top of her blanket every night just like our own Wimbelina.  That made me pause for a moment, trying to recall, how it came about in the first place, that Wimbeliba managed to assert her right to the blanket to begin with and all the way up to the present day. I have no clear answer. I must presume, she is in possession of some secret female power of persuasion yet unknown to man, perhaps of a chemical or else psychological nature. The fact of the matter is, depite her being occasionally doonhadded by Norsky, even severely, she is always back on track after a short while, with new determination and undaunted will to power. Impossible to oppress, she keeps her head high and proud. The competition for a place on the blanket has thus been settled long ago. Wimbelina has it all to herself. And even the human under the duvet is risking a brisk eviction, the way things are going on.

Norsky slalom

Yesterday was indeed an emotional roller coaster for the many people around the globe and across many time zones who zoomed in and stayed up late to watch the show down and curtain falls of one nasty election campaign with one sorry designated survivor.

Survival being the name of the game, we too had our share of uncalled-for excitement. Our beloved Norsky only narrowly escaping a frontal and fatal eclipse.

I had just returned from work and was standing outside the house in the cold in wait for Aerial to show up. But instead of Aerial, I heard Norsky wailing loudly from the opposite side of the road. He was patently way too immersed in his own project to stop and check whether the road was vacant before he set off to cross it. It sure shit wasni.

One car immediately appeared from the left side of the road so that Norsky had to change pace from trotting leisurely to cantering only to find himself in front of yet another car coming from right to left. Luckily, the driver slowed down a bit, letting Norsky complete his rescue manoeuvre unscathed. But what a goddamn close call it was!

After I recovered from this shocking incident, I gave Norsky a presidential lecture about how to be street and sealed it with a big hug. Norsky was pretty much oblivious to both. You can't but adore his sense of entitlement to the road and corrupted manners in general. May he get at least four more years in office. Amen.

The Glatze Licker

A Glatze Licker sounds pretty hardcore, not far from a Mother Fucker or a Pussy Eater and all them other ghetto words, straight outta Compton. But a Glatze Licker is in fact a concept quite harmles, one that doesn't need no X-rating. All it takes is a team of two, one who's a bald head and one who's a cat, for instance Norsky. The bald head could be mine. And Norsky may be sitting on the back of the couch, hovering over my head, so as to be able to go down on it and lick a patch of bald to his heart's content. What cay I say, peeps,  chacun son gout; chacun son gout.

Slavering away

Ever since wee, Aerial has been a major slaverer. Not all the time and not everywhere, but when it happens, it's happening big time. The root cause of this proclivity is uncertain, but maternal deprivation at a developmentally critical stage cannot be ruled out. But let us leave the etiological speculations aside and proceed straight to the phenomenology of this anomalous condition:
The slavering will usually and unfailingly start as soon as Aerial is seated securely on your lap and when receiving strokes to his head and back. Within seconds you'll discern pellucid drops of dew adorning his frontal coat almost like a necklace. If only they'd stayed there. Before long, however, you'll find your T-shirt has become transparent and cold is emanating from it. You get used to it after a while, I guess, or else you wouldn't really dare any intimacy with Aerial. I sometimes use paper wipers (usually sheets of kitchen roll) when available, and they really suck up some of the drool. The rest of the wetness is taken in stride, what else is there to do. But don't get me wrong, Aerial remains a most adorable pet side by side with being a great slobber. And he's not alone - today, something strange happened: while stroking Wimbelina a drop of slaver left my mouth and fell on her coat. It was a big embarrassment to me (and to me alone, it seems) and a moment of acute self discovery: I've come to realize that I too am a slaverer. And it's only gonna get worse with time, I've been told.

Farewell to Bonnie lass

Bonnie passed away some weeks ago. It all happened so quickly. She was pestering me as usual (one of her nicknames was Pesto) with her constant nagging. Then, without warning, she jumped on my thighs and tried to maintain balance by drilling her claws into my flesh. I pushed her slightly away, as often before, but this time she barely made it on top of the table before she collapsed, emitting a heart rending cry. I tried to talk her out of whatever she was going through, but to no avail. Soon, and we are talking seconds here, she turned on her side and gave her last sigh. And that was it. It was most uncanny to see her in such a state. We used to call her Alien Girl in the good old days, and now she was transmogrifying before my very eyes into some kind of an alien girl. Just like that. After a while, I tried to lift her up, but her limbs were all jellified so I decided to use a towel for support. I carried her to the entrance hall, where she spent the next day. I had a rather vain hope that she would opt to resurrect herself while I was away at work, but no such thing happened. It was pitch dark outside, when I carried her to the garden to be buried. She was now completely stiff, but still looked presentable, thanks to her thick fur. I had a torch with me, otherwise it would have been impossible to dig her grave. She went down with the towel. Since then, I had occasions to reminisce her and feel the void left behind, where once she used to roam. No more will she stretch her forehead in front of Norsky to receive a friendly lick, no more will she trample all over the phone and disconnect conversations with her paws. No more will she be the first rushing to the food bowl and the last leaving it. Nevermore will she potter about, huffing and puffing and muttering to herself in her desperate housecat dialect. Relieved too,for good, of her supervisorial obligations towards her closest kin, she is now in a hopefully much better place. R.I.P.