Here, kittykittykitty

One thing I never have to do is call Mario the Wonder Kitty when he's getting the occasional serving of wet food. His favorite is Iams' Beef flavor, and they come in foil packets (yeah, it's relevant). Last night I pulled one off of the shelf. The mere sound of it in my hand was enough to bring the cat running to the kitchen, when a moment before he was in deep slumber in the far room.

Aside: He's got great hearing, right up until I'm telling him to get out from under my feet... Truly amazing.

So before I traverse the three feet from shelf to counter, Mario is standing right there with his front paws up against the drawers beneath the counter, eyes wide and meowing to the world that he's not eaten in weeks, pausing for a yawn since he just woke up. Yeah, it's a ritual.

Usually the foil tears away smoothly and easily, very much like those Heintz ketchup packets you get at your favorite fast-food joint. Sometimes it is more difficult, but still opens up with a quick tug. This time, the quick tug didn't do anything.

That's not entirely true. You know how the ketchup packets sometimes blow up if you're not too careful (or being extra mischevious, if you prefer)? Well... While the tug didn't completely open the packet, the extra pressure from that tug squeezed a quantity of the broth out at high velocity. Time slows down to a crawl as the beefy broth droplet soars toward the ceiling. I pull my best Neo-from-The-Matrix impersonation, twisting to move my face from the projectile's path.

SUCCESS!

Then gravity kicked in.

The droplet fell back to earth at an unfortunate time. That moment in time when Mario wasn't looking up at the counter, and so was unaware that The Beef Brothlette Of Death Or At Least Certain Splattering™ was headed right for him.

And splatter it did. Right on the top of his head, between the ears. You know how cats generally abhor "wet"? Mario is no exception to this. Were he a possum, he'd have lost a life right then and there.

At this point, Mario knows something tapped him on the head. Milliseconds later he is aware that it is not going away as he ducks and backs away. As feline anxiety builds, it continues to cling to him as he engages Mario Overdrive... on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. He is displeased that even the sudden acceleration upon grabbing carpet still does not relieve him from the grip of this wet thing on his head.

I don't know what happened immediately after this because my eyes were closed as I doubled over in laughter. Schadenfreude? I concede the possibility. ANYway, Mario is soon positioned under the end-table in the living room. He tries to scratch away the irritation with a back paw. One swipe is all he took. I cannot explain the look of disgust and horror on his face when he realized the stuff was now in the tuft of fur between the pads of his foot IN ADDITION to having just been smeared deeper into the fur on the top of his head.

It's not unlike what you'd do if you blindly reached into the breadbox and got a handful of mold. Quick, go look in a mirror right now. THAT'S the facial expression.

So Mario shoots his daggers of displeasure at me, and starts the arduous process of "bath time" licking his soiled paw. The surprised expressions just never end in this comedy, I tell ya. He wasn't used to paw-cleaning being so apparently tasty. Of course, adding insult to "injury", I had to wash the rest off of his head for him with a damp sponge. I wonder what's going to happen on the next wet food night? I'll keep ya posted.

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Rush, The Big Money

I jinx myself, and cock-a-doodle-doo to you too

The Check Engine light is on again, dammit. Somehow I just knew it couldn't be that easy.

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Among things I recommend avoiding if possible:

When playing around with a new toy, be sure you set the ringer on it for something that won't send the cat into fits when he wants to purr on your chest.

I got a phone call on it last night and hadn't realzed that the ringer I'd set it to was of ... wait for it ...

A crowing rooster.

Also of note was that the volume of the "ring" was not low, and was about 18 inches away from me. In other news, I have a collection of deep scratches on my chest now. OW! (I understand that the wimmins find scars attractive, so I guess I've got that going for me)

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The Grateful Dead, Sugar Magnolia