BAD HAIR DAY

 

Babies.  Aren’t we all too precious, no matter how much, or little, hair/fur we may be born with?  As you can see, I myself was blessed with an abundance of thick, rich, yea, even luscious locks of varying shades.  Who could want more?  My bipeds raved over my exquisite beauty.  Mom biped told anyone who would listen that I was her “mini-me” ... whatever that means.   I don’t see the resemblance.

 

And then something went wrong.  I grew up.  And the mom biped took great joy attempting to live vicariously through my ever-growing, ever-curling, dred-locks, which I thought were dread-ful, but what can you do with a biped who insists on braiding, twisting, trimming, and threatening to shave designs on your scalp?!  I mean, really, this is the same mom biped who brags about attempting to straighten her own teenage dreds with fabric softener!  I used to live in fear that one day, she was gonna dunk me in a sinkful of blue goo.

 

Then came the day, a Monday, that the biped’s fur-fetish took new extremes.  She got her hands on a camera and began turning me into a calendar girl, usually in ways that made me look anything but glamorous, but made other bipeds drool with envy and say, “awwwww, so cuuuuute!”  (Gag.)  And here's the evidence.  She didn’t just take my photo in the most unflattering way EVER, but she abused her power with the aid of camera apps, thus comparing me with some ancient formerly-famous biped that went by the name of … Alfalfa! (gasp and gag!)

 

Somebody.  Help.  Me! 

Pleeeeease, won’t somebody come sneak me out the back door and shuffle me off to a professional salon!

 

Grumpily,

The Mini-Alfalfa

FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD!

 

I’ve become an expert at guilting the mommy biped with a single glance to subtly explain how detestable mom’s cooking can be.  She’s a great mom all-around, but seriously, I ask you, when was the last time someone took all your favorite foods, then blenderized them together into a glob that resembles the Blob from outter space movie and thrown that slop on a plate and offer that plate with a smile that belongs only in the Twilight Zone, and warbles, “yummy, yummy for your tummy!” and expects you to eat it and love it and wag while doing it, and all the time knowing it’s gonna rise up and make you upchuck on mom biped’s favorite papasan chair.

 

I have to take a breath, I got carried away.

 

Okay, I feel better now.  But you know, a good rant and pity-face to the upper echelon works wonders, because one Monday, she wised up, and now she gives me my favs in a way that makes sense – on a divided t.v. dinner plate with its own compartments for meat, vegies, carbs, and fruit.

 

The only thing missing was the dessert tray, so out came the begging-for-sweets face, and voila!  Pie for everyone!  And cake!  And ala mode!  Every Monday!  And none of it in a blender!  Now I don’t have to steal cookies off the deck steps that were left out for squirrels and have mom biped tell me “spit out that cookie” and I did, “ptui!” and sat motionless looking so sad and she laughed until she was breathless at my cuteness and said, “oh, never mind, eat the cookie.”

 

There are the occasional moments I bemoan being canine, but mostly, I have more fun than the bipeds do.  Meaning, I never have to clean up my own messes.  But that’s for another day.

 

Ta-ta,

Minnie, Queen of Cute

REVENGE IS SWEET

 Once Upon A Time, I lived with my five wee canine siblings.  Then my life changed forever, when my loving and needy bipeds adopted me – into a household of felines.
I ask you, is this rational behavior?  I suspect not.  Nevertheless, I soon found myself surrounded by three maniacal, foul-mouthed, and hairball-barfing mutants from another planet who refused to share their toys or food with me.
Then one miraculous day, a Monday, I believe, another alien cat spontaneously erupted from under the deck, squawling for help, and  like a stupefying curly-coiffed Supergirl, I rushed forth to save the day.  Since I rescued the squawly ball of fur, I felt entitled to name him … Squawl Ball.  But noooooo, the mommy biped wouldn’t have it.  Instead, she insisted on calling him Louis (gag), after yet another withering ancestor.  Let me tell you, Squawl Ball is a predestined moniker, although Loucifer is sometimes apropos.
As you can see, Squawl is also a perverse practical joker who takes abnormal joy in scaring me away from my own toy box, like a Chucky Doll, except with fur and claws.
But you know, I ain’t totally without cerebral uniqueness.  Because one day (a Monday), I discovered that Squawl was really useful for something besides leaving pawprints in my food and hoarding my toys.  He makes an excellent cushion.  See?

Yes, I had to display my  “innocent” face (taught to me by the dad biped) to the mom biped who stalks me with a camera and convince her that Squawl actually enjoys being squooshed.  She bought it.

I suppose this is enough unasked-for information for this Monday, and since Squawl hasn’t been squooshed today, I’d better go make myself useful and earn my food.  Which is another subject, that stuff the bipeds call “food.”  I’ll tell you about that next week, so just hold tight.

Toodle-oooo,

Mrs. Minnifur (another of the biped’s idea of cleverness)