Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #14: To Feed or Not to Feed?

Dear Mr. Fleez,

My kitty had a little bit of a weight problem, now she's thinner but she has a bag! My sister calls her "Bags" instead of her real name. Annie (the cat) is used to get treats whenever she wants how can I stop her from begging everyone that she sees for treats? Please help me with my dilemma!

Sincerely,
WAR (Berkley, MI, USA)


Dear WAR,

I found your question somewhat pointless. The answer is self-evident: If you don’t wish your feline superior to beg for treats, then hand them out freely and often. It’s possible that this would also be the solution to the “Bags” issue, as she would soon balloon out into the monstrous moggy she once was, thus reoccupying all of her sagging skin.

Of course, there are downsides to this remedy. Firstly, as a flabby feline she will run the risk of heart disease and diabetes. Such ailments can cause great pain and suffering for her. Weight related heart disease can kill a kitty suddenly, while diabetes can slowly drain her of her vital force, damaging her heart, liver, and kidneys in the process. It can also cause poor eye sight and urinary disorders.

Another problem that commonly occurs in tubby tabbies is feline arthritis. A lean and muscular moggy loves to play, leap onto things, and generally wreak havoc. She is agile and surpasses in grace even the most talented of human acrobats. A corpulent cat, on the other paw, will eventually develop stiffness in her joints, and her feet may become sore and tender. Rather than gracefully leaping, running and playing, she’s more likely to lie about between meals, adding more sag to her already swollen bag.

I suppose if you really want her to stop begging, there are ways to accomplish it. My self-proclaimed owner often tells me to scat or go, which I assume means she wants me out of the kitchen. I never listen, though, and in the end she usually spritzes me with a water pistol to get me out from under her feet. (Shaking a paw at the very thought.) She thinks I don’t know it’s coming from her, but I’m not as stupid as she thinks me. Nevertheless, the truth of the matter is this: If your Ms. Moggy wants a treat, she’s going to ask for one. If you wanted a treat you’d ask, would you not? It may not guarantee that you get one, but you’d have at least given it a shot. Likewise, just because she asks doesn’t mean she really expects you to cave. Maybe after a bit of wasted whinging she’ll get bored with you and find a grasshopper to victimise.

Ultimately you’ll have to decide whether you’re willing to suffer the lies, treachery, and deceit meted out by your moggy in her search for snacks or if you’ll give in and take pity. Bear in mind, however, that even if your feline friend eventually returns to her former state, there’s a good chance your sister will still call her “Bags”. After all, her bag will still be around, it’ll just be fuller and more noticeable.

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.

Britain Mourns Her Mouser in Chief.

Typically I avoid political topics, but today I feel it's my duty to honour the passing of one of Britain’s most esteemed politicians: Mouser in Chief Humphrey. It was confirmed March 20th 2006 that the eighteen-year-old moggy had recently passed away. His regrettable demise was likely the result of age-related health complications. He may have been but one in a long, respectable line of royal mousers (said to extend back as far as Henry VIII,) but he was without doubt the most memorable.

Beginning his tenure at No. 10 Downing Street in late 1989, Humphrey maintained an active, cost-effective role in the civil service. Under the premierships of Margaret Thatcher, John Major, and Tony Blair he protected the elite from the unhygienic and unwelcome presence of various vermin. Within his dossier(which is reportedly an impressive one and a half inches thick) a 1992 memo released by the accommodation officer at 70 Whitehall, describes Humphrey's eating habits as “little and often”, and to further delineate the sensibility of his station, his salary was estimated at ₤100 annually as opposed to the ₤4,000 required to employ an human to oversee pest control. It was also noted that, unlike Humphrey, the human had never caught a mouse.

In 1993 Humphrey remained the model of civil servitude. He was described as having “no criminal record” and having not been involved in any “sex or drugs scandals”. Even though he had been diagnosed with a minor kidney disorder, its cause was believed to be dietary and not due to any form of vice. As with any public figure, however, the press will inevitably attempt to tarnish an otherwise exemplary reputation; the Mouser in Chief was not immune, and in 1994 Humphrey was accused of savaging a nest of baby robins who had settled in a window box outside the office of then Prime Minister John Major. The accusations were denied on the official level, being branded “libellous” and “completely unfounded”. Whether or not anyone bought the denial is open to debate. Nevertheless, given some of the charges levied against his fellow politicians, I doubt savaging a nest of baby robins had his back overly bristled. In fact, were I him, I’d have been more offended by the official defence than by the press accusations. (Imagine someone publicly declaring you unfit to catch “roast duck with orange sauce, presented on a plate.”)

The 1994 accusations blew over, and in 1995 Humphrey decided he needed a holiday. In typical feline fashion, he wandered off leaving his humans wondering where he’d gone. After three months away from Downing Street, he was forced to return in order to quell disturbing and erroneous reports of his death. Acting on advice from representatives at Whitehall, he issued a short statement to the press: “I have had a wonderful holiday at the Royal Army Medical College, but it is nice to be back and I am looking forward to the new parliamentary session.” This statement alone proved that, like any good politician, Humphrey could lie with the best of them.

After combating kidney troubles, suffering a restricted diet, weathering press attacks, and being forced back from holiday prematurely, Humphrey grew tired. Some say that his kidney disorder returned, others fault Cherie Blair’s allergic or fastidious disposition, and still others blame the Labour Party in general, but regardless of any particular causal factor, November 1997 saw the retirement of Humphrey, the Mouser in Chief. Unfortunately even this action came under scrutiny, and he was forced to hold a final, though private, media conference in order to quash the storm of speculation that stemmed from his controversial Downing Street exodus. He had lived his days in a quiet undisclosed location, out of the public eye, until his death earlier this week. Undoubtedly, Britain mourns the loss of this majestic moggy.

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

Mr. Fleez' Agony Session #13: A Brush With Death.

Dear Mr. Fleez,

My kitty has bad breath. I have tried feeding him special treats, but for them to do any good I have to feed him a boat load, and I don’t want him to get fat. I spoke to his vet about it, and she says I should brush his teeth after he eats and then feed him a few of the treats to help keep the tartar under control. Since you are a cat I thought I would ask you first before taking her advice. What do you think about having your teeth brushed?

Sincerely,
S.H. – Michigan, USA


Dear S.H.

When I read your letter, the first question that sprung to mind was why: Why is it such a bad thing to feed your feline superior a boat load of treats? Feeding the occasional few is okay, but a boat load sounds fantastic! I’m not exactly certain what constitutes a boat load, but that’s one topic I’m willing to research!

As for what your vet says, well, I suppose that, in a technical sense, she is correct. Brushing a cat’s teeth after a meal will remove odour-causing food particles that lodge themselves up around the gum line, above the back teeth. The trouble with this, however, is that these particles are often replaced by bits of shredded plastic, rubberised bristles, or human flesh, as cats aren’t particularly fond of having some breath-obsessed human lunging a toothbrush or finger cot into their mouth, regardless of intent.

There are other risks to feline teeth-brushing that one must consider. Firstly, there are claws with which to contend: 18 of them to be precise. (That figure is barring the polydactyl or de-clawed equations, which could make a world of difference to he who brandishes the brush.) Claws are wonderful things, provided you leave us to our contentment. Otherwise, prepare to feel the searing heat of a cat welding itself to your hand, arm, or any other accessible bit, by means of nature's most adherent form of solder. If you’ve never had to detach a cat from yourself or another, I assure you, it isn’t pretty.

Another risk exists in the mouth itself. We felines have the most perfect set of mangling gnashers that God has ever created. We can break the neck of a bird or mouse within seconds if we so choose. Remember, your fingers are just the right size for mutilation, and if you get too close to moggy’s mouth when he feels threatened, he’ll be all too happy to practice his death crunch on one of your offending digits.

I’m not saying that you shouldn’t brush your feline farther-up’s teeth. If his breath is as bad as you say, he’s probably not thrilled with it either. Remember, though, sometimes brushing won’t help any more than will a boat load of dental treats (which still sounds infinitely better to my ears.) There may be digestive issues involved, or, worse still, a hidden illness. If his breath doesn’t improve with brushing and dental treats, you may need to revaluate his diet, or even (phht!) take him back to the (phhhhttt! phhhhhhhhttt!) vet.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. Humphries II (Mr. Fleez for – phhht – 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.

Standards Australian: Toilet Seat Sentry.

I'm always looking for titbits of interesting information: Mainly factoids or snippets of useless twaddle, which are easily twisted and manipulated to fit my mood, but the occasional bit of newsworthy information may also strike my fancy. Then, I suppose the truthfulness of that statement depends on what one considers newsworthy. As for me, I consider toilets such; and more precisely, Australian toilets.

I’d wager my whiskers that you’re wondering why an irresistibly cute, sleek, and squeezable moggy, such as myself, would be interested in toilets. After all, I’ve never used one; and quite frankly, I doubt I ever will. Nevertheless, after reading the majority of rubbish printed this week, the sturdiness and structure of Australian toilet seats was a refreshing break from the daily grind of politics and propaganda. Who wouldn’t rather read about the inflated bums of Australia than sift through the slanted tales and half-mad claptrap produced by the world’s mighty spin doctors?

Please, don’t misunderstand me. I freely admit that keeping sharp on current events, economic and political, is important. I’m not trying to minimise the need to be awake to the ever-changing scope of world affairs. Even housecats need to know what’s going on outside. Nevertheless, trying to truffle out the truth from beneath layers of hidden agendas, personal opinion, and political bias can be depressing. That’s why delving into - albeit not too deeply - the world of the Australian toilet industry piqued my interest.

Earlier this evening, while my self-proclaimed owner was away, I logged on to check my e-mail and to begin researching a potential topic for this evening’s blog. For the devout drawing room sociologist, catching wind of social issues that double as toilet humour isn’t an everyday occurrence, so when I found an article in the AFP, relating the apparent need to change the country’s standards for toilet seat safety, I quickly absorbed the details. Apparently some 62% of Australian men and 45% of Australian women are currently obese. According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, this is a 10% increase over the past decade. Perhaps that's why they call it The Land of Plenty. Nevertheless, the proliferation of portliness has caused a bit of unrest in the world of water closets. The nongovernmental organisation, Standards Australia, is considering the necessity of strengthening toilets for larger users; and, since they’re the ones who set the standards for safety and design, the seats upon which larger Australians conduct their business is their business.

I guess what I really want to know is what sparked the commode controversy in the first place? At which point did someone declare toilet safety an issue? Given the statistics, it’s obvious that obesity isn’t new to Australia. If ten years ago close to half of the populous was obese, why is this just becoming a concern? Have the instances of toilet seat-related injuries risen considerably in the past decade? Are there more unexpected W.C. casualties in recent years than there have been in past? Perhaps there’s more to the story than just concern for public safety. Perhaps the brother of the Standards Australia chairman recently married into a wealthy toilet seat empire, and they’re looking to boost production. Then, even if such is the case, this is one area of human society to which I happily turn a blind eye.

Yours Purringly,
W.C. (no pun intended) 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.