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The Naming of Cats
More proof that it is unwise to name one's cat after a famous but not terribly lucky gangster.   I was awakened this morning by a crash from the kitchen, and staggered out to find that Pretty Boy Floyd had knocked the sugar bowl full of cat treats off the counter.  (The treats are in a lidded sugar bowl because of earlier attempts to get at them.  They were also in a spot that I thought was inaccessible.  Apparently not.)  Unfortunately, the bowl had flipped neatly upside down, landing on top of the treats, and Floyd was pawing madly at it, trying to get the heavy china turned over or at least off the goodies so he could feast.  I would feel somewhat worse about laughing at him if his food dish hadn't still had kibble in it.
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*gigglefit* Oh, how I love cats. Life with cats is never boring.

You get irony, I get slapstick. A couple of days ago, I was unwisely petting Selene while she sat in my lap, without holding her in a death grip; in my previous experience, this is a normal thing one can do with cats, but the problem with Selene is that as soon as she starts getting into it ("Yes, worship me, human ..."), she falls off your lap.

This time, she caught herself by digging two claws into my hand, and hung from my hand by them until I could detach her. I look like I have been bitten by a tiny vampire.

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