Saturday, October 02, 2004

Mr. Poopyhead and me

This is the first time I played midwife to a cat. I held him from the second he was born, and he still thinks of me as mom. I confess in advance that this is a goofy entry.




This was the boy at eight weeks. He loved to swat at my fingers when I typed on the windoze laptop but, strangely enough, he didn't do this when I was on my mac laptop. He was shamelessly addicted to blueberry yogurt, cheese of any kind, and salads.

Mr Poopyhead earned his moniker at eight days of age. There were three very ugly white kittens that resembled white lab rats not cats. Mr Poopyhead started to "develop" first with a spot over his eye. He looked like one of his littermates had an accident and he got in the way. At two weeks of age he responded to the name and has been my baby every since. He follows me around, tries to take a shower with me, and loves to curl up on my chest when I am trying to type or on my laptop in bed. (That is the beauty of a laptop!)


I found this yesterday, it made me very wistful and slightly bitter that I didn't think to make Mr Poopyhead a tin-foil-alien-thought-probe-proof beanie with antenna! Anyway, the picture is a link to the Adorablog, a photoblog of kittens found abandoned in a box. (Personally, I think there is a very special place reserved in Hell for people that do nasty things like that to any helpless form of life.)

I occassionally write poetry, much of it intentionally bad (trust me, you don't want to know what I can do with haiku and a theme of toe-jam. It isn't for the weak-hearted.) My cat poem, for my oldest cat Pita, who never grew out of 5 month-old size, has a poem of her own. This was written in an on-line poetry SLAM. Its called:

Pita goes ballistic


You stand on my chest
announcing
displeasure
in my ear
at five a.m.
(Where is my coffee?)


Points of contention:
new kittens
litter brands
the virtues of foil pouches over cans.
An erudite debate
you sing
whiskers back make the
point.

And while we're at it
You express yourself
on my choice of music
leaving kitty surprises
downstairs
landmines of displeasure
await me.

We negotiate:
Foil yes,
but the kittens stay,
if they rodeo
I'll give you catnip,
kitty heroin,
to soothe you,
while they stalk spiders
on ceilings
and scream their alarm.


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