My name is Grizelda Matley. If you are lucky enough to be reading this, you can see that I am a cat. A beautiful female tiger cat, to be precise.
This blog is usually posted on Friday, but it’s early this week. My mom, aka Susan Matley, is at a writers’ conference, and, though she delegated to me the task of writing her blog, she insisted on posting it herself as she does not trust me to be a website administrator. Of all the nerve.
More about me. I’ve been a Matley for over seven years, grudgingly at first. I refused to go in the house until Bruce Matley (we call him Dad) grabbed me and hauled me inside in mid-December, 2008. As if I couldn’t look after myself in sub-zero temperatures! Yes, it was much warmer inside, but at the time I couldn’t bear the thought of being closed in. True to veterinarian wisdom, I reversed my opinion in two weeks.
Perhaps my claustrophobia stemmed from an event in my pre-Matley life? The memory is submerged, but I do remember this: I moved on to their property when I was kicked out of a feral cat colony across the street. Any fool can see that I am not feral. I am fully socialized and gifted at manipulating humans. Someone dumped me near Prescott, WA when I was little more than a kitten, someone who went to the trouble to have me chipped but, apparently, had second thoughts about the permanency of our relationship. The Matleys didn’t know about the chip until I’d been with them for several years; a veterinarian had to point it out to them the first time they dared to take me in for vaccines and a wellness check (I did not go easily).
My life here is mostly good. The problem is, of the half-dozen four-legged Matleys, I’m the only girl. My humans are shared with five boys- -three cats, a dog and a horse, all of whom, to put it plainly, stink. I try to be compassionate (all of us are rescues) but as I’m so much better than they are, the burden is hard to bear. They’re jealous of me, of course. I’m smaller, cuter and have more outdoor privileges than the others (which they, too, could have if they weren’t such nitwits about wandering off the property when unsupervised). I walk a fine line, just willful enough to make the humans afraid I’ll slip over the back yard fence at night and be the main course at a coyote cookout, so they let me sleep on their bed. That’s me and me alone. And Mom and Dad, of course. The door is closed, no four-legged boys allowed, except when we have a sitter. Can anyone explain the thing about pet sitters, how every single one of them has exclaimed, “He’s so cute!” when they first meet the dog? Honestly, what’s so wonderful about a beagle-dachshund mix who sits up on his little square butt and begs to have the ball thrown? Sometimes they even get google-eyed over the other cats, or even the horse. Frankly, it makes me sick. My strategy is to hide under the bed until the crisis blows over and my humans return. Why let the deranged and indiscriminate pet sitters have the benefit of my illustrious company?
Okay, that’s my two kibble’s worth. So do me a favor. The stinky boy known as Hoosegow (his coat is also striped- -of all the nerve!) got 78 “Likes” when Mom used his picture for her Facebook cover photo a few months back. If I get 79 or more, it will go a long way toward deflating his big head.
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