And if I don't get the oppurtunity to post another tomorrow, here's another
one of my favourites, orignally posted on July 10, 2001.

Most days I'm a good slave and stay convinced of Shmogg's obvious status as
a member of The Superior Species.
And although he works extremely had at keeping the impenetrable veneer of
supremacy occasionally I have the unique pleasure at seeing a small crack in
his armor. Its on those days I laugh myself silly and am then punished by He
That Must Be Obeyed, and once again, I turn a blind eye to Shmogg's little
not-quite-as-preeminent-as-he-likes-to-think foibles.

Shmogg is not a big drinker. It is rare for me to see him drink at all.
Occasionally he'll beg for the vanity tap to be turned on while I'm having a
shower, but mostly, I figure that he gets all the moisture he needs from the
great dollops of wet cat food I feed him morning and night. The fact that he
has no difficulty filling a litter box has always suggested to me that he is
not as dehydrated as a human would get in similar circumstances. After all,
he never breaks into a sweat and its not like he ever does any sort of heavy
physical exertion (gobbling kibble at faster than light speed not
withstanding).

Although obtained ostensibly for Shmogg's benefit, the "self filling" water
bowl (basically a bowl with an upside plastic 2-litre soda bottle filled
with water upended in it) has been Fluffy's domain ever since she moved in.
For the sake of the carpet, we moved the watering station into the kitchen.
I don't know why, but she seems to get more water on the floor than she does
in her mouth, and we always seem to look at her at the precise moment that
she has the most amount of water dripping off her muzzle.

It's also a peculiar skill of Fluffy's to contaminate the water with the
most bizarre objects. I am no longer surprised at the monotonous regularity
of suicidal flies in the water bowl, but the socks, pencils, keys, bits of
plastic and other bits of general carpet decoration keep turning up in the
bowl. Its almost like they appear after I re-fill the thing and *before* it
manages to get to the kitchen floor. She also manages to drop the most
rancid of what I assume is ex-food into the water and I dread to think where
she is dredging it up from - on that count I'd prefer to stay entirely
ignorant. The most amazing thing, though, is that despite the fact the water
at the end of a day can look much like a rank billabong, Fluff still drinks
the water with as much vim and vigour (and splashing) as ever.

Shmogg, naturally, won't have anything to do with it.

Except of course when he thinks no one is looking. After all, if we ever
found out that he was quite capable of using the regular water bowl, why
would we turn on the vanity tap each time he yowled at us to do so?

The water this particular morning had been changed after putting Fluffy out
into the backyard to do Secret Doggy Business (mostly, chasing her tail and
teasing the dog behind the back fence, the little flirt). The water in the
bowl was crisp, clear and fresh, and not one molecule of doggy-drool tainted
it. As I was making my morning coffee, Shmogg sauntered into the kitchen to
complain about his breakfast. He complains about his breakfast every day, so
I've gotten to ignore his disgust and outrage (at the quantity, not the
quality) and work around him as he trolls the kitchen floor for possible
left overs. Shmogg also tends to ignore me ignoring him and goes through the
routine regardless. Despite the fact it hasn't scored him any extra
breakfast *ever* it seems to have become a routine of his and we go through
it every day, generally in that automatic pilot way of going through the
motions without consciously realising what we are doing.

However, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Shmogg was doing something a
little different. He'd spotted the water bowl and was becoming increasing
interested. Now I knew for certain that he wasn't interested in the bowl of
water because he was thirsty. He pathetic mewling was the "I am but a poor
half starved kitty, take pity and feed me" sort, made all the more effective
by being able to reverberate the tones through the great standing waves set
up in his ever expanding udder. These are very specific, insistent and
somewhat menacing meows that mean only one thing: I want *food*. Meows for
other things sound different.

So if it wasn't the water itself, what was going on? Shmogg stared deeply
into the small pond of crystal clear water, entranced. I called him a few
times "Puss, Puss" and he didn't react at all. I used the secret kitty call
of "Poodj" which, despite its bizarre sound, has a success rate of an
incredible 30% (dam good if you ask me). The attraction of the "Poodj" is
only surpassed by one sound in Shmogg's mind - the sound of a can opening.

Some may say I karmically attract Bastard Cat Tricks, because I play Rotten
Human jokes on poor unsuspecting, totally innocent, harmless, sweet little
creatures (yeah right). But some days, temptation trounces fate. While
Shmogg was staring closer and closer into the water bowl, I opened the
cupboard door and opened a can of Chicken & Tuna - his favourite.

Miraculously, and I don't use that word lightly, Shmogg didn't move. He was
entranced by his own reflection, oblivious to all else besides his own
stunning visage looking back lovingly at him. I stared in slack jawed
disbelief. Shmogg, *my* Shmogg, ignoring food? Oh my little Narcissus, how
long will it be before your Nemesis meets you?

I didn't have to wait for long. Slowly, inexorably, Shmogg moved closer and
closer to the water, closer and closer to that gorgeous other cat, that
beautiful, perfect Adonis of felinity, and all the while I held my breath,
wondering what would happen when the inevitable happened.

So what do cats do when they meet other friendly cats?

Shmogg sniffed gently, carefully, carried out the tradition kitty greeting,
and lovingly sniffed the nose of breathtaking magnificence reflected back at
him. Instead of continuing with the intricate ballet of feline greeting
formalities, the rotten other cat just squirted the dreaded *water* up his
nostrils.

I tried not to snicker as he backed off and snorted loudly, expelling the
disgusting stuff quickly out of his sinuses - he didn't even bother to look
dignified, so horrified he was.

Well, he would not put up with that, he would teach that other Bastard Cat a
Lesson He Would Not Forget. Shmogg came around sideways, all puffed and
halloweened. His back was arched and his ears were flat against his skull. I
carefully retreated into the corner, not knowing whether to cough and let
Shmogg come to his kitty senses, or stay as quiet as possible and let the
spectacle of Shmogg at his stupidest to continue.

What can I say? I am a masochist - but a curious one.

With absolutely deadly intent, Shmogg hissed his wrath at The Cat In The
Bowl. How dare that cat do such a *disgusting* and *insulting* thin to him.
How dare he, when slaves may be about. His honour on the line, Shmogg
prepared to do battle.

Fully arched and staggering sideways, he crept up on The Cat In The Bowl,
circling slowly, tail thrashing insults in catly semaphore. His muscles, all
taut and ready to spring writhed in anger and loss of face. Circling,
sidling, seething, he looked for the best place to attack, sought out the
best strategy, and at the exact calculated moment, lashed out at his
attacker with full fury and a blood-curdling war cry.

The Cat In The Bowl attacked back by wetting Shmogg's whole arm!

I stayed very quiet, trying to surreptitiously blend into the kitchen
cupboards. I dared not to move, not to make a sound. I was dead anyway, but
may as well enjoy my last moments watching Shmogg be a complete ning-nong.

Shmogg was alarmed. He hadn't expected his attacker to be such a vicious,
cunning opponent - clearly Shmogg had underestimated him. Perhaps his rakish
good looks and dazzling aura had put Shmogg off. Shmogg moved away to think
of a better plan, while I nearly killed myself trying not to laugh.

With a cry rivalling Xena's Shmogg went for one final lunge. He went in with
all claws bared, with a direct frontal assault. I did not know cats could
fly, but Shmogg can. He landed nearly right on top of the whole contraption
and bunny-kicked the living polytetrapthalate out of it. He kicked, he
clawed, he hissed, he swore. A most ferocious and determined beast I have
never witnessed.

But not smart, not this time. Because the frontal assault had caused the
whole contraption to teeter. Each swipe and claw made it more and more
unstable until finally the Cat in the Bowl reaped the most horrible victory.
The soda bottle toppled over onto top of poor Shmogg and drenched him (and
the kitchen floor) with nearly two litres of fresh, clear, cool,
doggy-spitless wadder-monsters.

There was no point trying to hold it in any more, the mirth had built up to
explosive pressure and finally exploded out of my lungs. Shmogg stood in the
kitchen, dripping wet, in a puddle of water, while I, the most cruel and
unsympathetic slave, laughed at my master's foibles. He stomped off, wearing
his dignity around his ankles, while I collapsed on the kitchen floor,
desperately trying to control bodily functions while hysterically laughing.

The revenge was typical, of course. Not only was I left to clean up the Cat
In the Bowl That Bested Shmogg with the mop, where did Shmogg retreat to on
this cold winter's day. That's right, and at 11:00PM that night, it was too
late to put the doona and sheets in the dryer. Please don't tell Joel, but I
don't think I've ever enjoyed sleeping in a wet spot more. Shtupid kitty.

Yowie