Misplaced Priorities.

I suppose I'm a fickle feline. Then, most of us are. When my human is paying me constant attention, I get annoyed, but when she's preoccupied with something else I become jealous. I'm not sure why I'm like this, but I certainly can't deny that it's true. My best guess is that I prefer affection on my terms; I like to be in control. That's why I'm not too happy with this new career Azy has begun. She's still home, but I'm no longer her center of attention, and, in fact, I find myself having to beg for it.

When she first left her away job, she was constantly doting on me. Always taking pictures of me, petting me, playing with me, napping with me; I couldn't escape her. Now, however, she's spending more time with her pictures than she is with me. I have no idea why she would prefer a picture of me to the real thing, but she claims it's because they hold still while she's trying to draw them.

Maybe what perturbs me most is that all that annoyance wasn't really because she couldn't get enough of my sleek, glossy, black, pantheresque physique. All she really wanted was to get a few good snaps to use when practicing her drawing. I guess I should be flattered; but I'd much rather have timely meals than flattery, and now that she's all wrapped up in her art I'm finding that I have to be louder and more purrsistant at earlier hours if I wish to get my supper on time.

She says I'm being unreasonable. She claims that I've got more annoying since she's started working at home, and that I've no sense of time. She swears that she's feeding me on time, and that I'm just being paranoid because she's not constantly reassuring me. She also had the nerve to tell me that I've got a spare tire! Huh! A cat with a spare tire! It's appalling! I'll starve to death before long. I mean, look at me! I'm practically skin and bones! Who ever heard such absurdity?

I think she's the one being unreasonable. How can she expect me to sit patiently, watching her paint pictures of huge giraffes and silly-looking glowing things, knowing that she's not watching the clock? She might get all wrapped up in her work and forget that there are only two, possibly three, hours left before she needs to feed me. And how does she expect me to be satisfied with several short sessions of mouse on a stick, when she's home for hours? She should be entertaining me. That is her responsibility, after all. That's what humans are supposed to do, isn't it? I think there's even a proverb somewhere that says: All the days of your life you must feed, house, stroke, feed, play with, peel grapes for, pay attention to, fan, feed, dote on, clean the sand of, feed and entertain felines, for it is the whole obligation of man. I could be wrong, but I swear I've read that somewhere before.

I don't know what to do with this human of mine. First she's too lovey, now she's not lovey enough. I need to develop a plan of action. Something that will bring her to her senses; something that will make her realize that there is more to life than trying to be balanced between your work and your feline friends. Yes, I need to find a way to make her realize that I am her number one priority. Either that, or I need to learn how to open the kibble tin without her.

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

Too Much Time on Her Paws.

My self-proclaimed owner has been spending a lot of time at home lately. I can't say it's a bad thing, but I won't say it isn't. When she used to come home from her job, I'd have to do a lot of meowing to get anything through to her, but now I almost can't convince her to leave me alone. She's always wanting me to sit for her so she can get a picture, or she wants me to come watch documentaries on the television. I wouldn't mind so much, but it's only been a few days, and I'm not sure how much more of this constant adoration I can handle.

I know that there are some people out there who might find it odd, me complaining about being loved, but those people aren't annoyed into misery by some doting so-and-so who's got nothing better to do than wake them up in the middle of a restful nap just because they have cute feet or they were too snuggley to resist. I need sleep, too, you know? How am I supposed to get it with my human constantly tickling my paws and stroking my whiskers?

There are some up sides to Azy being home. As I said earlier, I can't say it's an entirely bad thing. She allows me to sleep in her bed now. She didn't always. It used to be that as soon as I'd even mention breakfast, she'd toss me out and stick a sock in the door so I couldn't jemmy it open. I guess I do sort of go on about my brekky, but if you relied on someone else to prepare your meals, you'd be insistent about punctuality, too. Still, she's not quite so strict anymore. She still doesn't feed me early, but instead of shooing me off to my kitty sack, she just grabs me, stuffs me under the covers and pets me until I decide to bite her. I like biting her, so it works out well for both of us.

Another good thing about her being home is that she's much calmer than she was when coming home from her job. She always said that she loved her job and all the people she worked with, but as true as that may be, it was getting very difficult for her to breathe in the evenings. I like it much better when she's calm, because I don't have to worry about whether she's going to be around to feed me. She thinks it's because I worry for her, and I don't put her right. I just continue administering purr therapy until she decides to go paint, and then I try to slip in a few hours of undisturbed snoozing before it's time to sound the dinner yell.

My highest hope is that she eventually settles down into kitty complacency and allows me my space. Until then, I must agree with the sentiments of Oscar Wilde who once wrote, "Being adored is a nuisance." Yes, it certainly is.

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

The Panther Within.

I'm not in the mood for writing today. In fact, I've been so preoccupied that I nearly forgot it's Friday. I suppose it could be that I've not got used to writing on Fridays, but I think it's more likely the exhaustion wrought by stalking a mouse. I don't often get the excitement of hunting, so when I do, it's difficult to pull myself away.

I'm not sure how long this rodent has been hiding out in our basement. I only go down there when the door is open; and recently I've had to meow incessantly before receiving any response from my humans, so I had sort of given up. Nevertheless, the other day something in the duct work had me peering purrposefully down the air exchange vent in the foyer. It's a shame I can't fake that look because it never fails to convince my human of the need for investigation.

I knew there was something amiss the moment I arrived at the bottom of the steps. Nothing ever smells interesting down there, but this time there was the distinct aroma of mouse droppings. They have a very specific scent that humans don't pick up on straight away; but I smelled it, and after further exploration I spotted them in the far corner, near the water heater. There was a leak in a hose preventing me from getting too close, but I came as near as I could without getting squirted. There was no mistaking the small, brown, elliptical pellets; they were certainly of Muridae origin.

The discovery heightened my senses, and as I wandered toward the gardener's nook, water hissed and sputtered from the puncture in the flexible metal hosing, causing me to jump and fluff my tail. I'm not sure why. I knew the puncture was there, and I'm certainly not afraid of the mouse who'd likely caused it. Still, I was bristled and tingling all over.

My back twitched and my whiskers pointed forward, feeling for any movement in the air ahead. Then, as I prowled in the cool, still darkness, I saw it! There it was; and there was I, and I knew I had to get it! I sprang to action running after it, but it ducked under a bookshelf that hadn't seen a book in years.

One thing about we felines, is that we're patient. Then, purrhaps a better word might be tenacious. I crouched there for hours, waiting for him to move, and just as I had closed my eyes for a quick nap, he darted out and ducked under the rickety old sofa. I took off after him; but my feet slipped on an exceptionally smooth patch of cement, and by the time I'd gained my footing, he'd sneaked off in the direction of some empty bottles and jars. There was a rug nearby, which was good for a nap, so I perched myself upon it and set up sentry.

I'm not sure if he's still in among the basement bric-a-brac; but I gave it my best, and there's always tomorrow. Hopefully he hasn't cleared off by then. I'd really like to find him.

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

Mr. Fleez on Art: MC Escher.

As a feline, I possess no lasting interest in the maths. I agree that mathematical reasoning is important to someone, somewhere, but I'm purrfectly blissful in my ignorance of it. Though, in spite of my indifference toward the science itself, I cannot deny the benefits heaped upon the artistic community by those who recognize the value of mathematical precision. One such person was a Mr. Maurits Cornelis Escher, who, surprisingly, had an admitted dread of the subject himself.

MC Escher was born on the 17th of June 1898 in Leeuwarden, Netherlands. As a child he was raised by his father George Escher, a civil engineer, and stepmother Sarah, apparently the wife of a civil engineer who had hoped her stepson would enter the much esteemed field of architecture. Much like many brilliant men, he attended school but failed to excel in many subjects. As a result, he never officially graduated, and even though he was eventually presented an opportunity for higher education, ill health kept him from attaining the aspirations of his father. Instead, he focused on his art, something for which we are all most grateful.

Even though MC Escher failed to become an architect, the endeavor to placate his father brought him to the School for Architecture and Decorative Arts in Haarlem, Netherlands. This is where he met with Samuel Jesserum de Mesquita, a teacher who opened his eyes to a new course, one better suited to him: Graphic Arts. Mr. De Mesquita (Does that mean the mosquito?) helped Escher hone his skills and learn in depth the woodcut printing techniques that have given shape to so many of his artistic visions. He gave Escher the encouragement and assistance of a true mentor, and provided him with the courage to follow an aspiration of his own.

Though not a formally educated research mathematician, he proved himself such by the meticulous study and documentation of his methods. Throughout the course of his life, MC Escher developed his style, relying heavily on the laws of geometry and symmetry and had written several notebooks on the subjects of shape, color and symmetrical properties. His works breathed life to his visions from basic division of the plane, to the two-dimensional representation of physical impossibilities, and anything in-between.

During his life, MC Escher created nearly 450 woodcuts, lithographs, and engravings, and over 2000 sketches and drawings. His work has interested and inspired countless people ranging from the naive elementary student to the worldly wise film director. Few have never seen his work, and many who claim they haven't simply don't realize that they have. At the time of his death, the 27th of March 1972, MC Escher was established firmly in the hearts of many as the father of modern art. I can't say that I disagree.

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