Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #12: Venerated or Venomous? Take Your Pick.

Dear Mr. Fleez,

I have a beautiful white female who loves to display herself in the drawing room window of my flat. When people walk by they look at her and comment on how striking she is. The problem starts when they neglect to comment. I swear she knows and becomes angry over the matter. Every time someone walks by without commenting, she leaps down from the window and tears through the house with much caterwauling. You would have thought they had touched her with a branding iron. Why the devil is she like this?

Sincerely,
Brian.

Dear Brian,

There's something I simply must address before answering your question: You do not have a beautiful white female, she has you. That is all there is to it. I know you humans like to think you're in control, but try sleeping in without feeding your kitty her brekky and see for yourself who controls whom.

Ultimately, the answer to your question is a simple one: She deserves veneration, as she is superior and obviously commanding. Nevertheless, this scenario reminds me of a queen I used to know, and oddly enough she was also white. Her name was Flip, and I once roomed with her and five others, one of which was a filthy cocker spaniel.

Flip believed in feline supremacy, and had a knack for rabblerousing. At one point she managed to have us all-herself excluded-thrown into solitary confinement for sedition. I'm still not sure how she managed to keep herself from blame, but I suspect her gleaming white coat dazzled the authorities.

That night was, if nothing else, educational. Surprisingly, I can't even remember what triggered it now. I was resting peacefully upon the highest perch of the cat tree; as I am the alpha-male, and the top perch is therefore mine. I heard a vicious growl from near the window and soon noticed the others gathering beside her to have a look out. With interest piqued, I leapt from the cat tree and strode purposefully to the window. I tried to chucker my way through the hubbub, but that's when Flip ignited.

Bristling her back from ears to tail, she turned to us and demanded freedom to roam. She spoke of rodents, grasshoppers, and fields of catmint and grass. She made our harsh, urban garden sound like Eden, yet here we were, sitting before the picture window, watching it all pass by. Well, I was young and foolish back then, and to an almost kitten a revolt sounded fine. I sided with her, and the riots began.

At first the humans tried to quell us with squirt bottles, but we were on fire, rocking the end tables and turning over chairs. Our language was atrocious and vulgar, and our chants could be heard by all the neighbouring ferals. No squirts would stop what Flip had started, and much to everyone's surprise, the eldest, most sedate of us all, Fancypants, reached up her sleeve and pulled out a flick knife. She brandished it freely, demanding our oppressors open the door. They stood off, so the beta male pulled a set of brass knuckles from beneath his collar to add pressure.

I suppose things got a bit out of hand, and when the Patch Tabby started swinging nun-chucks a passer-by saw her through the window and phoned the police. It wasn't long thereafter that one of the humans, brandishing a broom handle, swept us off into our separate cells to contemplate what we'd done. Flip protested her innocence and was allowed freedom within the flat.

The mess took days to clear, and we remained in solitary confinement until all vestiges of our uprising had been eliminated. After this incident I recognised that humans are far too powerful to be taken by force. I've since come to realise that violence with the ultra-violent is not the answer. Manipulation of those of inferior intellect is far easier.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)



READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

Pooh-Pooh Power.

For some time I’ve suspected the press of reporting crap, but until this week I had no concrete evidence. I knew it wouldn’t be long, though; and so I waited patiently. Shockingly, the proof came from Reuters, one of the few media sources I still somewhat respect. The article heading caught my eye immediately: “San Francisco to Test Turning Dog Waste into Power.”

I wasn’t really surprised that the press reported on such singular developments. After all, they report on the marvels of microscopic sponges, sweater-sewers for penguins, and even the death cries of over-watered cucumbers. Nevertheless, I can’t help doubting that people will actually relish reading about the many wonders of doggie droppings over their morning kibble. I felt truly sorry for the readers suffering from sensitive stomachs.

Indigestion notwithstanding, the article wasn’t completely void of newsworthiness. In fact, I learnt quite a few things. Firstly, there are way too many dogs in San Francisco: An estimated 120,000, to quote the figures. Furthermore, the human/science equation is farther off balance than I had previously realised. No cat in his right mind would ever have thought to exploit the personal evacuations of mangy mongrels for anything even remotely connected with consumption. Then, they do say that dog is man’s best friend, and since dogs have no trouble consuming their own waste (or even a cat’s,) it should come as no surprise that they’ve begun to think in similar circles.

I guess that, like the media, I, too, have my purrsonal prejudices. I like being warm and eating well-prepared meals just like almost everyone. Still, I’d much rather cook over the burning remains of long-dead lizards, or even the gaseous belchings of good old mother earth, as they seem much more civilised than the filthy excretions of canine cretins.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #11: Couple a Cat With Buttered Bread And All You'll Get is Hair in Your Brekky.

Dear Mr. Fleez,

A friend of mine told me that if you butter a piece of toast and drop it on the floor it will always land buttered side down. Then she said that if a cat falls from a height it will always land on its feet. But then she asked me what would happen if you tied a piece of buttered toast, buttered side up, onto the back of a cat, which one would be most likely to win out over the other. Since you are a cat, and you are a pretty clever cat, I thought I would ask you before giving my answer. What do you think would happen?

Sincerely, Cornfused.

Dear Cornfused,

This is one bit of truly pointless rhetoric. From a feline standpoint, the mere contemplation of it is an absolute waste of brainwaves. Nevertheless, since you were wise enough to consult a superior thinker, I'll attempt to answer you with as little outward contempt as possible.

I'd like to emphasise the importance of reason when solving such problems. There are various possible outcomes, and since man isn't the proposed subject of this pitiable experiment, nor does he fully understand the nature of felinity, there is no way he could reasonably cover each eventuality. A cat, however, is directly involved, so he is more likely to be able to tell you what will really happen in just such a situation.

Before testing this theory, you'd have to find a willing subject. This is a serious obstacle, because each cat has a different disposition. Some cats, usually ferals, but occasionally Domestic Shorthairs who lack social graces, will gouge out your eyes and bite your hands into lifeless nubs long before you've managed to get within arm's length. This will seriously hamper your toast-tying efforts, as you'll lack the visual ability needed to see where the cat has gone and the manual dexterity needed to grip him should you happen to locate him.

Some cats will allow you near enough to think you've got them before moving out of reach and flashing you the undersides of their tails. This is more common among Persians and Himalayans, but it sometimes occurs with the Siamese. If this happens to you, rest assured, you are being made fun of.

There are also some who may allow you to lay hold of them for their own personal amusement. It's usually the British Shorthairs, as they're more laid back by nature. (Not to mention they have a warped sense of humour.) Such ones may even allow you to get your toast against them and the string almost tied before they turn into a bag of cat-jelly and slide from your grip. This is a technique cats sometimes use to annoy humans. If you find yourself wrestling to keep a furry sack of cat-jelly in your lap, I suggest you save yourself the frustration and let it go.

I suppose that somewhere there is a cat who'd willingly take part in this foolish affair. After all, if the fall isn't from a great height, what would be so bad about having a slice of warm, buttery bread strapped to you? If nothing else, you'd at least get a good licker-full of dairy fat in the end. Nonetheless, if you really want to know which would win out, bread, buttered-side up, or cat, feet on the floor, I'll tell you: A cat is more likely to land on its feet and then turn to lick the butter from the bread than it is to land completely on its back just because there's a bit of buttered bread Velcroed to it. Worst-case scenario: Cat gets distracted by buttery goodness and lands on its side.

Factually speaking, Cornfused, a cat doesn't always land on his feet. We have a superb sense of balance, and are therefore able to level ourselves out much of the time. This balancing act is where that myth originated. Even so, the only way a cat will land flat on his back is if he has lost control over his muscles. Furthermore, buttered bread doesn't always land buttered side down. Because the buttered side is technically weightier, and therefore has better odds for landing on it, people have cited it as one of Sod's many laws. Still, that doesn't make it foolproof. Now, I know it's difficult for you, or really any human, to rationalize or comprehend, but for the sake of your own inner peace, give it a go. Re-read this article if you must. Do whatever it takes to put an end to such pointless rhetoric. As you can see, there aren't really any unanswerable questions, only those which should remain unasked.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)



READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.

The So-Called Science of Screaming Plants.

I don't mean to pick on the Germans, but I can't help it. More than half of the unusual scientific news I run across comes from there. This week is no exception.

Now, I realise that, to those in vegetable-loving circles, this is probably an old topic. However, to a cat who appreciates little more than the occasional nibble of an over-ripe cantaloupe, a shady place from which to stalk his hapless victims, or the uncanny evacuative effect of Spider Plants on hairballs, it's all an undiscovered country. So, if you've heard of it already, too bad; it's new to me, and this is my blog.

Apparently researchers at the Institute for Applied Physics at the University of Bonn, Germany, have developed microphones that "listen" to the screams of distressed plants. It's said that these instruments pick up on sound waves produced by gasses omitted by ailing annuals (or bi-annuls or perennials, even,) long before they show any physical indication of illness. Furthermore, Bonn University scientists claim that the more distressed the plant, the louder their "signal."

My more regular readers already know that I view most human scientific experimentation as an enormous waste of cold, hard capital that could otherwise go to the feeding and caring-for of their feline superiors. After reviewing this case slightly more in depth, however, I've come to accept that it bears some positive aspects. For starters, if these so-called scientists are able to detect disease in vegetables before it gets out of hand, it can be contained and prevented from spreading. Further, determining definitive stress levels for such substances will greatly reduce waste during transportation. To humans this may mean higher food yields at lower costs.

While it's true that human research is usually, at least from a feline purrspective, frivolous at best, the fact remains that humans need to eat. Yes, we must care for our servants kindly, otherwise they may fall prey to the ravages of ill health. Then who will feed and stroke us? Taking that on balance, I suppose "listening" to plants isn't an entirely ridiculous notion. Nevertheless, I can't help wondering what they'd hear were they to place their scientific microphones near a delicious stalk of catmint once I've got my gleaming-white fangs round its luxuriant, flowery throat.

Yours Purringly,

W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for short.)




READERS REMEMBER! You may now ask Mr. Fleez for his jaded opinion* on your personal situations. Please send your enquiries to: housecatwisdom@yahoo.co.uk.

*DISCLAIMER: By contacting Housecat Wisdom you're asking a housecat for his personal opinion. If you require serious advice, please, write Ann Landers, Dear Abby, or consult a professional psychiatrist.