Mojo's Familiar

So Mojo's been remiss regarding her blog. Because life has become quite busy, lately. First because we spent a week or so vacationing up in Maine, where poor Rosie was subjected to the cruelty of sea water for the first time. And then we came back to find the house--sans feline since Ratty's demise--a little too mouse-ridden for even Mojo's decidedly laid-back taste.

So Mojo started the Serious Campaign for a New Cat. Which wasn't all that hard, mind you, since the Favorite Husband, despite his insistence that he is indeed a macho cat-disliker, privately and secretly LIKES CATS, as indeed he (like Mojo) pretty much likes anything that doesn't try to actively draw blood from him. So he was okay with the idea of a cat, so long as Mojo got one who was "exactly like Ratty". Minus the yowling, of course, although the Favorite Husband has remarked more than once about how he misses the yowling.

And Rosie, for her vote, desperately wanted a cat. It would give her something new to chew on. Rosie LOVES cats, but in true cat-bewildering fashion she loves them and attempts to play dog games with them. Like "duck down suddenly and attempt to break your opponent's leg". She would attempt to play this game with Ratty, who didn't have a clue what the game entailed. She would suddenly duck down, lunge forward and grab one of the cat's forepaws. (Very gently.) And hold it. And Ratty, who was a very laid back cat who liked the dog right back, would stand there with his held paw up above his head in the dog's Jaws-o-Death and patiently await the release of his appendage. Sometimes they would stand there for a good five minutes, awaiting some resolution to this, uh, "game".

So Mojo had the agreement of all members of the household, but she had her own life to live, and cat-shopping was low on her priority list. So the siblings conspired, and dragged her to a shelter--the Connecticut Humane Society, if you must know--and vowed to BUY HER THE FRIGGIN CAT JUST TO MAKE HER SHUT UP ABOUT IT ALREADY. Or words to that effect. It was an early birthday present (today being my birthday, by the way. Happy Birthday, Mojo! Once more I digress, but Birthday Girls are allowed such things). And a ludicrously expensive present, at that, since heretofore Mojo has always just picked up cats off the side of the road when she desired a new one, and certainly never SPENT MONEY ON ONE, let alone MICROCHIP the silly thing and all that other malarky. (In my defense I DO spay them and vet them. And feed them on occasion. But that's where the money pit stops.)

Mojo had never been to a shelter before, and while it was a "nice" shelter, with all the cats in these sort of large aquarium-style viewing cages with their life histories and turn-ons and turn-offs neatly displayed for all to see, she nonetheless did not find anyone who "spoke" to her, adult nor kitty. And just when Mojo had gone through them all--and the dogs too, for good measure--and she was privately thinking to herself, "Is that it?" she happened to pass the hallway of rooms where people are allowed to meet and interact with their potential pets. They are like little prison cells with glass doors, and each one we passed had the happy tableau of happy families with happy puppies and kitties. Except one, which was empty of people, and just had this lonely little black kitty who was utterly determined to NOT be left alone. She was clutching the windowsill of the door with her little front paws, screaming silently at every human who passed her demanding attention. Here was a kitty who Made Things Happen!

I assumed being alone in the little prison cell meant she was already taken, but my fed-up siblings cuffed me upside the head and dragged me to the front desk to inquire, and then with permission dragged me back to the room. I walked in, and kitty, instead of trying to escape, made her first creditable attempt to get underfoot and be kicked across the room. Which of course meant she was the cat for Mojo. Plus she was jet black, not a white hair on her. Not that that has anything to do with it, but she is total Halloween Kitty. The Society did their best to determine that Mojo was not a total kitten-eating psycho, but Mojo as usual fooled them by behaving properly in public, so eventually she snowed them enough to inspire them to throw poor kitty in a cardboard box and give Mojo some food. Kitty also got a collarful of dog tags that weighed about as much as she did, so the first three days she practically walked around the house on her front legs with her rear end waving up above, she was so weighed down by this silly collar.

But Mojo can pick 'em--Sadie (we kept her kennel name, since we were too lazy to come up with anything more creative, although since then I've thought of renaming her "Geiger"--her purr sounds like a Geiger counter--or "Hinge"--her meow sounds like a rusty hinge) has proven to be a smart, loving little kitty who came home and saw the way to rule the house was to worm her way into the Favorite Husband's affections. This she did in an hour or two. Next came the dog, who was a little scary, but within the first twenty-four hours she was standing her ground and now two weeks later Rosie is again attempting to grab the cat's front paws. And Sadie, for her part, enjoys stealing (and being engulfed by) the dog's bed, while Rosie tries desperately to tempt her to play with her Big Mean Kitty toy:

So Mojo has been dealing with the tough decisions these past few weeks: do I blog, do I do actual WORK, or do I play with an adorable little kitty? It's a tough life, I gotta say. In the meantime, Mojo's readers will need to steel themselves the next few weeks for atrociously "cute" updates, like Sadie discovering Mojo's bubble bath and the delicious goodness of soap. I apologize in advance to any of you who might be diabetic, since this will probably put you over the top...