Show us your. . .
. . .children. (I was going to type "pussy" but. . .)
So, I finally got off my ass and wrangled up some pictures of my cat children. No, they are not sims. These are REAL cats.
Without further adieu, my kids.
This is the oldest (and only daughter) Cringer. She's a little low-rider meatloaf.
She's also. . .
. . .a daddy's girl. (hee hee, look at my sleeping wife--and no beard either, he has a very wooly beard now) Cringer gives me this look quite often. We call her Cringer-ella, since she likes to think she's a little princess. We also call her Bitcher-ella. It suits her. She now has to live a V.C. Andrews life in the attic. Ok, it's not really the attic. It's the third floor of our house. She has two bedrooms (complete with beds) and a heater (now that it's cold). Why? Because the youngest cat son (who you'll see in a minute) beats the crap (sometimes quite literally) out of her. In retaliation, Miss Cringer took to peeing on the floor (and things left on the floor, which in my less than immaculate house could be just about anything). Cringer is also my wife's favorite. He got her before we were married.
BUT, before we got married (while my wife was living in a one room apartment with just Cringer) I met what would become our middle child when I went with a friend to a cat foster house (aka Cat Lady house). She was looking for a cat. I was not. It's the perfect set up, huh? When I first saw him he was wirey and crazy and sneezing out a huge string of bright green mucous. It was love a first sight. My friend thought she might want him. But when he came to visit her house he immediately lept onto her china hutch, threatening her delicate ceramic figurines. She knew it wouldn't work. I was secretly thrilled. I convinced my soon to be wife to take in the object of my affection, re-named Monte.
Now this has to be one of the world's WORST photos. Monte is hard (for me, the ever impatient and lazy photographer) to get a good snap of. It doesn't help that, when presented with the camera, Monte has to run up and sniff the lense (then present his butthole to it, a shot no one wants to see). Monte's white whiskers on black face was what first drew me to him. Look at that face? (yes, he's my favorite. no, it's not a secret).
But, Monte is neurotic. He's a Moocher First Class which borders on the obnoxious. He WILL get in your face while you eat (at least he does it to me, probably because he knows I'm a push over--this drives my wife to distraction). He also enjoys smelling your breath (when you pick him up), drinking after shower water from the shower floor, watching the toilet flush, and. . .
. . .grooming. Obsessive grooming. Grooming to the point that he is BALD. His belly, inner rear legs, the back of his front legs (elbow to ankle) and the base of his tail (above his hole) are, more often than not, smooth as a baby's behind. After numerous trips to the vet, we have come to the realization that this is just the way he is. As long as he doesn't lick sores into his skin then we don't worry (and he never has licked sore into his skin).
After getting married, the wife and I lived in a one bedroom apartment with our two cat children. The children got along well by this point. Then, in his infinite wisdom, my wife says the now infamous words, "Do you want a kitten?"
Come on. What person who's currently owned by two cats will turn down a sweet, adorable little kitten?
Enter our third cat child, Cecil.
Now when we got Cecil he was the teeniest tiniest cutest little kitten in the whole world. We were concerned Monte would want to eat him. It turned out Monte was quite the little "mommy" while Cringer stared at Cecil with her Look of Death. This should have been a big warning to us. It wasn't.
Then, Cecil began to grow.
And grow.
And grow.
From the teeniest tiniest sweetest little kitten in the whole world came:
(again, a bad pic, but this time my wife is to blame). Iron Cat. Yes, that's our itty bitty kitty, filling up a beer case. And Cecil IS the Iron Cat. Sing along with Ozzy and me: "Heavy paws of lead. Fill his siblings full of dread. Running as fast as they can. Iron Cat lives again!" (I have another pic of him completely covering the top of the full sized radiator in our old apartment--he's a huge cat)
And Cecil does enjoy himself a cold Iron City beer (or, if you speak yinzer, "Ahrn", as in "Yinz gonna get a case of ahrn for the Stillers game on Sunday?"--Stiller=Steelers).
Cecil is VERY aggressive. He is the reason Cringer must live her V.C. Andrews life in the attic. We've tried everything to calm him down. Pheremone diffusers (puh-lease, he'd sniff them and then go whoop her ass), behavior modification (ie squirt bottle--still used to get him down from tables/counters/etc), and even pharmaceuticals (both in pill and transdermal ear jell--which costs more than you want to know since it has to be mixed to order). Yes, he is neutered (all the children are altered). There is just something about Cringer (probably her un-willingness to fight back aside from the pissing) that just gets him going. And he's starting to assert himself over Monte, too. Woe be to the cat or human that is in Cecil's way when he spies a stray cat making a pilgrimage across our yardling. He hisses and spits, swatting at anyone who comes near him. We have to lure him into his cat carrier (which he loves despite it only coming out in "negative" moments) and transport him to the basement where he will spend some time in solitary confinement.
Why do we put up with this?
Look at that face? How could I get rid of such a sweet face? And he's not mean all the time. But when he is mean, look out. Taking on a pet is "Till death do us part". There's no way we could get rid of any of our three cat children (though in the case of Cecil we have been tempted, don't get me wrong).
Now, how hard is it going to be to render all three of these beasts into sim form so they can go live with my mesim, J.L. Verde?
So, I finally got off my ass and wrangled up some pictures of my cat children. No, they are not sims. These are REAL cats.
Without further adieu, my kids.
This is the oldest (and only daughter) Cringer. She's a little low-rider meatloaf.
She's also. . .
. . .a daddy's girl. (hee hee, look at my sleeping wife--and no beard either, he has a very wooly beard now) Cringer gives me this look quite often. We call her Cringer-ella, since she likes to think she's a little princess. We also call her Bitcher-ella. It suits her. She now has to live a V.C. Andrews life in the attic. Ok, it's not really the attic. It's the third floor of our house. She has two bedrooms (complete with beds) and a heater (now that it's cold). Why? Because the youngest cat son (who you'll see in a minute) beats the crap (sometimes quite literally) out of her. In retaliation, Miss Cringer took to peeing on the floor (and things left on the floor, which in my less than immaculate house could be just about anything). Cringer is also my wife's favorite. He got her before we were married.
BUT, before we got married (while my wife was living in a one room apartment with just Cringer) I met what would become our middle child when I went with a friend to a cat foster house (aka Cat Lady house). She was looking for a cat. I was not. It's the perfect set up, huh? When I first saw him he was wirey and crazy and sneezing out a huge string of bright green mucous. It was love a first sight. My friend thought she might want him. But when he came to visit her house he immediately lept onto her china hutch, threatening her delicate ceramic figurines. She knew it wouldn't work. I was secretly thrilled. I convinced my soon to be wife to take in the object of my affection, re-named Monte.
Now this has to be one of the world's WORST photos. Monte is hard (for me, the ever impatient and lazy photographer) to get a good snap of. It doesn't help that, when presented with the camera, Monte has to run up and sniff the lense (then present his butthole to it, a shot no one wants to see). Monte's white whiskers on black face was what first drew me to him. Look at that face? (yes, he's my favorite. no, it's not a secret).
But, Monte is neurotic. He's a Moocher First Class which borders on the obnoxious. He WILL get in your face while you eat (at least he does it to me, probably because he knows I'm a push over--this drives my wife to distraction). He also enjoys smelling your breath (when you pick him up), drinking after shower water from the shower floor, watching the toilet flush, and. . .
. . .grooming. Obsessive grooming. Grooming to the point that he is BALD. His belly, inner rear legs, the back of his front legs (elbow to ankle) and the base of his tail (above his hole) are, more often than not, smooth as a baby's behind. After numerous trips to the vet, we have come to the realization that this is just the way he is. As long as he doesn't lick sores into his skin then we don't worry (and he never has licked sore into his skin).
After getting married, the wife and I lived in a one bedroom apartment with our two cat children. The children got along well by this point. Then, in his infinite wisdom, my wife says the now infamous words, "Do you want a kitten?"
Come on. What person who's currently owned by two cats will turn down a sweet, adorable little kitten?
Enter our third cat child, Cecil.
Now when we got Cecil he was the teeniest tiniest cutest little kitten in the whole world. We were concerned Monte would want to eat him. It turned out Monte was quite the little "mommy" while Cringer stared at Cecil with her Look of Death. This should have been a big warning to us. It wasn't.
Then, Cecil began to grow.
And grow.
And grow.
From the teeniest tiniest sweetest little kitten in the whole world came:
(again, a bad pic, but this time my wife is to blame). Iron Cat. Yes, that's our itty bitty kitty, filling up a beer case. And Cecil IS the Iron Cat. Sing along with Ozzy and me: "Heavy paws of lead. Fill his siblings full of dread. Running as fast as they can. Iron Cat lives again!" (I have another pic of him completely covering the top of the full sized radiator in our old apartment--he's a huge cat)
And Cecil does enjoy himself a cold Iron City beer (or, if you speak yinzer, "Ahrn", as in "Yinz gonna get a case of ahrn for the Stillers game on Sunday?"--Stiller=Steelers).
Cecil is VERY aggressive. He is the reason Cringer must live her V.C. Andrews life in the attic. We've tried everything to calm him down. Pheremone diffusers (puh-lease, he'd sniff them and then go whoop her ass), behavior modification (ie squirt bottle--still used to get him down from tables/counters/etc), and even pharmaceuticals (both in pill and transdermal ear jell--which costs more than you want to know since it has to be mixed to order). Yes, he is neutered (all the children are altered). There is just something about Cringer (probably her un-willingness to fight back aside from the pissing) that just gets him going. And he's starting to assert himself over Monte, too. Woe be to the cat or human that is in Cecil's way when he spies a stray cat making a pilgrimage across our yardling. He hisses and spits, swatting at anyone who comes near him. We have to lure him into his cat carrier (which he loves despite it only coming out in "negative" moments) and transport him to the basement where he will spend some time in solitary confinement.
Why do we put up with this?
Look at that face? How could I get rid of such a sweet face? And he's not mean all the time. But when he is mean, look out. Taking on a pet is "Till death do us part". There's no way we could get rid of any of our three cat children (though in the case of Cecil we have been tempted, don't get me wrong).
Now, how hard is it going to be to render all three of these beasts into sim form so they can go live with my mesim, J.L. Verde?