#cat lit

[catladychronicles]

🌈🎨📚The Color Kittens!🐱🎨🌈❤️ 💛🧡💚💛💙💜🤎 💕🌹🪐🌝🖍✏️

[phoenixandhypatia]

A Plea For A Return to the Days of Yore, For Example, Yesterday When You Were Petting Me

I'm all for spontaneity, creative ways to get the job done. Just yesterday, I re-purposed one of your glasses by pushing it off the desk. Now it decorates the inside of the trash can. You're welcome.

But this putting stuff -- books, groceries, unfolded clothes for example -- in the comfy chair is a lousy -- how do the kids say it? -- oh yes: aesthetic.

It is neither art, nor function. How am I supposed sleep, I mean create, on top of a box of sparkling water I can't crawl into? Even the clothes are cold. You know I prefer them in baskets.

Return yourself to the chair, your ample tummy warm, coffee your only need (besides the stroking of my fur, of course). Don't let plastic bags come between us, for you love me.

[nypl]

We support all adorable cat-centric children’s books! One of our regular patrons happens to have recently written and illustrated one called Cat on the Bus. Read an interview with Aram Kim here.

[phoenixandhypatia]

A Misunderstanding

I crawled up to his chest, my haunches lowering slower than he wanted upon his comfortable gut. But he called my name, half whisper, half shout. I bent my head and pushed it into the stubble between his beard and neck. "Dammit!" he suddenly shouted, and before I could react He was disentangling my claw from his shirt and pushing me to the floor. I licked my paw, pretending I wasn't bothered. He shifted on the couch, not even looking to see if I was hurt. He just kept watching that box, as if a cat that loved him more was about to come out of it. I finally got his attention when I tapped his foot. "What?" he asked. I gave him the eye, the one that says, "Are you out of your mind?" He shook his head, then said, "You can come up if you stop being a bitch and scratching me." Well, I almost turned away right then. I nearly waltzed myself to the laundry room, where at least a warm pile of clothes would give me a little attention. But then I saw his gaze had returned to the television. I said to myself, "Oh no. I'm not going to let him forget me that fast." I leapt back onto his stomach, delighting in the sound of his "Oof!" before he put his hand on my back and started caressing me. Before I let him know he was forgiven, I turned and waved my tail in his face. "Oh alright," he said. "Lemme see, okay?" It sounded like a contented chuckle came from him, so I didn't mind when he brusquely pushed my body against him.

[perfectlittlepanels]

An Inconvenient Wonder

"Yeah, that's where that shit goes." Also of note is that I haven't had to draw the state of Tennessee this many times since 2nd grade.

We just got out under from Winter DREDD Part 2: Now It's Personal. It was about 5 in of snow + ice which might as well be 4 ft up to northerners. 

Episode 3 of TMAC is coming along nicely. And if you click that link you'll see the new URL at themeteorsarecoming.com! New episode should be out by end of week.

[shitmycatsread]

Uni: "& Sons starts out very promisingly, even it's mainly by suturing together some familiar, guaranteed-to-purr elements: The upper-class Manhattan familial saga; the famous aging novelist, now hobbling along well past his prime, threatening to fall into total irrelevance. And Gilbert can fucking write, like the prose is a bicycle that he's cruising down Park Avenue on, popping a no-hands wheelie while juggling ice pops or something. The guy is so adept that he's not content with his own novel; he has to insert snippets of a novel-within-the-novel, i.e. that aging famous novelist's debut novel, Ampersand, described as a more brutal Separate Peace. He also wiggles in extra gimmicks that are pretty cool: Hand-written letters, for instance, or a father-son reunion relayed as a segment from a melodramatic screenplay. 

So yeah, Gilbert is basically the equivalent of a very talented meth cooker, bubbling up eye-popping, weird gems like:

Outside the entrance none of the smokers recognized the celebrity in their midst since they were too busy interviewing themselves with their tiny filtered  microphones.

or

Near the front door lay Richard Dyer's family in luggage form.

Still, & Sons drags on too long in its obvious yearning to be a Franzenian Important American Novel (though, to be fair, it's probably better than Freedom anyway). There are some unfortunately handled, late-in-the-game twists (let's just say that human cloning and long-repressed homosexuality are involved). Final verdict: A really fucking good novel from a talented writer, but one that doesn't manage to swell to the boundaries of its ambitions." 

[straymessages]

From the moment I opened the door to my house I was met by the physical sensation that I was not alone. I caught a glimpse of the cat as he jumped off the sofa and raced out to the balcony. In his dish were the remains of a meal I hadn't given him. The stink of his rancid urine and warm shit contaminated everything. I had devoted myself to studying him in the way I studied Latin. The manual said that cats scratch at the ground to hide their droppings, and in houses without a courtyard, like this one, they would scratch in flower pots or some other hiding place. From the very first day it was advisable to provide them with a box of sand to redirect this habit, which I had done. It also said that the first thing they do in a new house is mark out their territory by urinating everywhere, which might be true, butt he manual did not say how to prevent it. I followed his tracks to familiarize myself with his original habits, but I could not find his secret hiding places, his resting places, the causes of his erratic moods. I tried to teach him to eat on schedule, to use the litter box on the terrace, not to climb into my bed while I was sleeping or sniff at food on the table, and I could not make him understand that the house was his by his own right and not as the spoils of war. So I let him do whatever he wanted.

from Memories of My Melancholy Whores (trans. Edith Grossman)

...would it be creepy if I started an effort to edit an anthology of literature having to do with cats?