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Hoboken Hostage Crisis

Yesterday was the worst day of my young life. Even worse than being out on the mean streets of Communipaw as a kitten. The peeps once again rammed me into my carrier and once again I was seated in between them in a cab headed for trouble. I didn't realize just how much trouble and pain I was in for. I couldn't possibly imagine that my Pop would dump me and leave. I thought they'd return after they went across the street to stuff their faces at Dunkin Donuts. After all, Pop doesn't drink coffee and is trying to cut down on his sugar in—aha ha ha—take. His sugar—aha ha ha ha—intake, I meant to say. Sorry I couldn't keep a straight face.

To get back to my story, what started out as any other V-E-T visit, soon turned ugly. How ugly? you say. Spine-chilling ugly. An accomplice to Dr. Evil waited for me in the examining room and quickly shoved a cold metal object into my anal cavity. She asked the peeps if they preferred any certain doctor. TW didn't want Dr. Evil because she has something against doctors who are young enough to be her grand-daughter. They voted again Dr. Sox because that's how deeply the hatred runs in the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry. Apparently if Dr. Sox saw Pop's NYY jacket, he'd extract all my teeth and sell them to Big Papi Ortiz to wear around his neck while he crushes that juicy Yankee pitching. So we were "Lucky enough"—and I use that term with as much sarcasm as I can muster—to get the head of the team, Dr. Sadist, who's been at the hospital since 1982.

Don't let Dr. Sadist's smile fool you.
I didn't like Dr. Sadist from the get-go. I hissed as he opened my mouth for a look-see and a sinister smile curled at the ends of his mouth. The peeps gave him the laundry list of things they needed him to torture me with—teeth cleaning, i/v fluids, blood test for Bartonella, distemper shot, and nail trim—and he happily obliged. He asked which paw they wanted the i/v in since they had to shave it. Then the accomplice told the peeps they could kiss me one last time and I was whisked out of the room, screaming and kicking.

They took me downstairs to a cold dungeon and the torture began. I saw the torture racks and manacles. To my credit, I put up such a fight, they had to sedate me so they could sedate me, if that makes any sense. I don't know how long I was out, but when I awoke, I realized the peeps still hadn't come back. One of the other animals told me, I was being held hostage for $1000. He told me he hadn't seen his peeps in over a year. Oh no, what if the peeps can't come up with the dough, I fretted. My cell phone, it's gone! OMC, these aren't just sadists, they're terrorists, I then realized. I wanted to call the peeps and warn them. I wanted to call Tuna one last time to say Goodbye. I wanted to send a Twitter SOS as I'd read the Iranians did last year. Somehow, I managed to find a cat with an i-pad who let me log onto my Facebook account. The i-pad had a clock which told me exactly how long I'd been in Dr. Sadist's torture chamber. I posted: CATHY KEISHA HELD HOSTAGE: HOUR 6. Will the torture ever end at 2:33. No one responded. No one read it or took it seriously. No one cared.

I then looked at my Twitter account and found that TW had hacked into it. GASP! She was telling my furrends that I was having my teeth cleaned and was fine. I WAS FINE! FAR FROM IT, WOMAN. I had a catheter in my shaved paw and nothing but metal bars under me and I WAS FINE?!?!?
TW brought her camera w/her, she forgot to use it.
Finally in the 7th hour, things began to look up. The peeps had raised the blood money. I was proud of myself. I didn't crack and didn't tell the terrorists any of the information they tried to pry out of me. America's secrets would die with me if need be. The harder they tortured, the more resolve I had. The peeps heard their final act as they viciously yanked the catheter out of me. I growled, screeched and hissed while Dr. Sadist tried to cover it up by telling the peeps things like I "was a hand full" and I "didn't play well with others."

I vow that their little game will soon be over. I think the peeps have an obligation to expose this terrorist organization for what it is. Write editorials to the local newspapers and online. Speak up for little animals all over New Jersey. And if they don't, Cathy Keisha will. Thank you for your time.

Wednesday Words of Wisdom

Someone's been up on the kitchen cabinet? Me? Wuzzint me! Dunno who it was. If it was gray, it was HHGutt. Don't go excusing me unless you have proof! HUH???

Versatile Blogger Award

I was recently presented with this most prestigious award by Mariodacat. Now I wasn't sure exactly what "versatile" meant so I went to my Funk & Wagnells—yeah TW is THAT old—and did some research. This is what I found out:

  1. capable of or adapted for turning easily from one to another of various tasks, fields of endeavor, etc.: a versatile writer.
  2. having or capable of many uses: a versatile tool.
and 3 other definitions having nothing to do with me so we're too lazy to retype them. Number 1, though, definitely sounds like me. I switch gears like a well-tuned caddy from serious posts to funny ones.

7 facts about myself:
1. My hooked tail
2. My little white bikini
  1. I have a cute little hook at the end of my tail. The peeps don't know if I was born with it or abused as a kitten.
  2. I never roll over on my back but if I did, you'd see my markings resemble a little white bikini.
  3. I LOVE Mexican and Chinese food, which could be why I have this so-called irritable bowel thing. Peeps say no more spicy food for me. I say, we'll see. I can make their lives miserable cos I make the rules around these parts.
  4. I won't play by myself. TW has to play with me and I'll harass her until she does. I'd rather play with common household items that my nip toys. I love bread ties, straws, and I can spend hours chasing a CD like a frisbee.
  5. I belonged to the Alley street gang before I was sent to the shelter. I was in 2 shelters before the peeps adopted me.
  6. I can see the NYC skyline from Times Square to Yankee Stadium from my window. I love to watch the Lincoln Tunnel traffic as well as the birds outside my window.
  7. 6. Our view. TW liked the way the sun reflected on the building.
  8. Most of my Twitter furrends know me as kind, sweet and lovable; but, believe it or not, I can be downright mean and nasty. Sometimes when I jump on TW's bed at night, I terrorize her so bad she has to sleep on the couch. When the lights go out, I know I have the advantage because she can't see in the dark like I can.

    Now that you know all about me—or do you?—I have to pass the award on to 3 deserving bloggers. Lemme put some names in my NYY cap. And the winners are:
    1. Yoda Heltman's Barking Out Loud. He has a wonderful blog, which even plays music for you.
    2. Attie Cattie, who recently started dating Lautrec, her one true love. She lives with Baby Audrey and Booshi Bunneh and has some great recipes.
    3. My new furrend Father Tom, the church cat. I don't know too much about him, except he is a Maine Con who's the resident cat at Temptation of Christ church. Seeing as I'm headed straight to hell, I figure it wouldn't hurt to have some divine intervention.
    That's it for me for now. I've got some exciting adventures lined up for y'all, if I can get TW to do my bidding (and typing).

    The Show of Shows

    We had some excitement here recently. Pop bought TW a new DVD/VCR combination because her VCR player had died over a year ago and she still has a lot of VHS tapes that she hasn't converted including my Video Catnip, I might add. The peeps have an ancient TV, which weighs about a ton and a half and Pop hasn't even attempted to move it since his hernia and back surgeries. Before then, Pop, being the big, strong and heroic man is he, used to move it with ease all by himself. With one pinkie finger, even! Because I keep it real on this blog and don't want to be giving out any false information, I looked it up; our television weighs 238 lbs! That's 108 kg, for those on the metric system. That's not counting the weight of the stand, cable box and DVD recorder, so do the math. I did supervise. I'm not allowed behind the TV or in the stand, so I did some exploring and the peeps were too preoccupied to stop me.
    Trying to get attention while the ballgame is on
    The peeps together pulled and tugged and finally got the TV out to where Pop could get to work hooking everything up. You say it should be simple: take the cords out, label everything and stick them back into the new DVD player. I say HAH! For some reason, it was originally hooked up NOT to record off the TV so Pop decided to remedy that. He pulled every last cord out from the TV, cable box and DVD machine. Every! Last! One! Of course, they didn't take my advice and simply order TiVO. Did I mention that he didn't unplug anything from the wall outlet?

    After a few minutes (although it seemed like hours), he told TW to turn on the TV. Nothing but a black screen. Several minutes later, they tried again and there was a gorgeous picture. Mission accomplished? Not so fast. The TV worked on its own, but not through the cable box. After a few more tries, I'll relay to you their conversation. I'm cleaning up the language for young ears.

    TW: Maybe we should call Cablevision and they can walk you through this.

    Pop: I know what I'm doing. It should work now.

    TV now shows white noise and static. 20 minutes passes.

    TW: Should I call the front desk? I'm sure one of the maintenance guys should know how to hook this up. They leave in a half hour.

    Pop: Can it, woman (OK, those are my words but he was annoyed). I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!! I'm just trying some different hookups. Turn it back on.

    More white noise; more static.

    TW: Just hook the TV and cable box. I'll use the DVD to dub and not to tape off the TV. We can take CK's idea and get TiVO. (OK, my words again.)

    Pop: $#%##$%%^!

    TW: There's sound but no picture. Let me go back there.

    CK: Yo! It's past someone's feeding time and it's very important that the sick cat gets fed ON TIME! GET ON IT, WOMAN!

    Pop [moving out of way]: What did you do? We have a picture!

    Now don't get the idea that TW actually did anything back there. All she did was jiggle one of the cords in an effort to remove it. Then, by the grace of GOD, there was a picture AND sound. It was all Pop's hookups that worked. He just rammed them in too hard.
    STILL trying to get attention and looking increasingly ANNOYED!
    Finally, just like magic, the DVD also worked. We have liftoff! When it came time to move the TV again, the woman used her legs. She pushed with her right leg and moved 250 lbs, with ease. Pop hardly had to push at all. Note to self: don't let TW get mad enough to kick you or you're in big trouble!

    Finally after all the excitement, the stunning little sick cat got her food, which is really the most important part. I mean, what do I care about whether the TV works. Of course, there is a Video Catnip on VHS that I haven't been able to watch in over a year. Woman, where's my video?


    9-11-01—NEVER FORGET!

    Saturday marks the 9th anniversary of the horrendous attacks on NYC and America where over 3000 innocent people lost their lives. I don’t think anyone in the U.S., except those in NYC, Washington or possibly Oklahoma City can truly understand the emotions of that day. Today’s guest co-blogger is my Pop, who works a couple of blocks from the World Trade Center. He isn’t quite the writer I am, but I hope you’ll take the time to read his first-hand account. Take it away, Pop!
    I remember going to the Yankees/Red Sox game the night of 9/10/01. We had an amazing thunderstorm with the rain cascading down the facade of the old stadium and the game was cancelled around 9 pm. On the subway home, we talked about getting to work on time instead of going in late, as we had planned. Yanks/Sox games always last way too long.

    I got to the office about 8:47 am that morning and had just turned on my computer to start work. It was a beautiful Tuesday and it was the weekly close. I had signed on and began to open applications when I heard someone say the WTC had been hit by a plane. We thought the plane was a small private plane.

    A group of my coworkers and I went to the window to see what was going on. We saw the North Tower ablaze; papers fluttering in the sky like large snowflakes. We also saw objects too heavy to be paper plunging to the earth and didn’t know we were watching people jumping from the building. All you could hear were the sound of sirens from the Fire Department, Police Department and EMS all rushing up Broadway to the disaster. We were all wondering how they would fight this fire.

    Another coworker yelled a plane was coming. As she yelled, the entire bank of windows on the 27th floor of 1 State Street turned dark as the plane whizzed so close by you could read all the markings on the bottom. The building shook from the power of the jet engines.

    The plane sped toward the tower, although it looked to be happening in slow motion. The explosion that followed was better than anything Hollywood could create. My boss started yelling it was time to get out of the building. He was yelling to get our belonging and get out.

    People were running to get their things while I—being the grandson of a fireman—stood transfixed by what was unfolding at that window. It just amazed me that a box of continuous feed computer paper floated out from one of the broken windows and then slowly unraveled as it made it’s way toward the ground. Then I felt the heat from the explosion and I too knew it was time to leave.

    27 flights of stairs later, we were standing in Battery Park watching, again not clear as to what we had actually seen. No phones—either land lines or cell—were working so we couldn’t call our loved ones to tell them we were ok.

    R and V and some others chose to stay and try to find a phone that worked. My department chose to walk. We wound our way up the East Side of Manhattan looking for safety, being careful to walk along the water and away from the buildings. Somewhere in Chinatown we heard the roar of what sounded at first like another plane and then like a subway train. The South Tower had fallen and what we heard were the floors pancaking. Fortunately, we were far enough from the plume of smoke and dust that we didn’t inhale any of it. We continued to walk until we were in Little Italy when we heard the sound again. This time we turned around in time to watch The North Tower falling. None of us would ever be the same again. None of us will ever forget that moment. It will be hard to forget that 14th Street (about 4 miles from where I work) and somewhere is where civilization started to appear again only there were soldiers directing traffic.

    We ended up on 62nd Street and 1st Avenue, ironically near where I had once worked. I thought about that as we walked. We caught our breath, got to see some tv coverage, got something to eat and it was time to move again. The attacks took place before 9:00 am EST and I got home to my two cats sometime after 8:00 pm EST. In between, a friend and I saw 7 WTC also collapse from the attack. We were at 23rd Street and the Hudson River waiting for a rescue boat to take us to Jersey.

    I now cherish the extra time I’ve been given and the people I knew then and know now. I’m sorry we all had to go through this, but at the same time it has made us better and stronger.

    Everyone after 9/11 wrote and spoke how they never would forget this day but since then it sometimes seems to me people look at what happened as an inconvenience. People from the rest of this country seem to want to forget it was America, not New York City that was attacked.

    We all remember our brave soldiers who gave their lives every year on Memorial Day and all our soldiers who are doing and have done their duty on Veterans Day. On this day we need to remember all the innocent who did nothing more than come to work that day or get on a plane to begin a vacation/business trip.

    I wish for all of you peace, health and happiness for whatever days we all have left. Please don’t forget as I never will.
    This photo appeared in Vanity Fair. It was taken by Will Nuñez from the same building
    that Pop works in.

    This is what TW wrote in December 2001:

    Nine One One—September 11, 2001—The day CK’s Pop realized he worked in a war zone. No one really expects to look out their office window and see a plane zoom by—within about 20 feet of the window—and slam into another building filled with innocent people. Nobody should have to feel the explosions that rocked his building—five blocks from the World Trade Center—that morning or see people jumping to their death. Far too many people in lower Manhattan had to do those very things that morning. Our lives and attitudes were changed that day but we were luckier than others. What’s 27 flights of stairs, followed by an 80 block walk when two of your neighbors made a trip down 88 flights of smoky stairs, saw co-workers burned over 30% of their bodies, arrived in the WTC plaza as Tower 2 collapsed and lay among the death and destruction of the building they’d worked in. Donald, on a prosthetic leg walked down those 88 flights of stairs and ran for his life through pitch black smoke and ash twice that morning. And me, I just watched from 32nd Street, hoping that the Empire State Building wasn’t the next target. My co-workers held each other and cried as we witnessed the towers pancake down and turn to dust. The worst part was not knowing where CK’s Pop was. If he was caught up in the dust and debris of the crumbling towers. I didn’t hear from him until almost 12 hours later when he finally made it across the river to NJ and called my friend’s house which served as my overnight shelter while the bridges and tunnels were closed. That same friend found out the next day that her neighbor was crushed by a plane’s landing gear as she came up from the subway. Pray for her as she begins the long road to recovery after 6 operations to repair her body.

    CK’s Pop’s building was closed for about 10 days until it was considered “safe” and there were enough phone lines to conduct business. We still don’t know how safe the air is down there while the fires continue to burn. After his first visit to the now-sacred ground, I received this e-mail: “Just got back from Ground Zero. The horror of it cannot be described without seeing it. The destruction is massive.”

    God bless the victims and the survivors. Let us not forget the sights and sounds of that day or the bravery of the rescue workers—the firemen, policemen, EMS and others—who ran into buildings about to collapse so my neighbors could come home to their children. Say a prayer for the young child who doesn’t yet realize the hatred and evil that exists in the world he’s entered.
    The only ones who made out good that day were Autumn and Nicky because they got 2 dinners that night! TW had arranged for a neighbor to feed them and when Pop finally made it home, he fed them too!

    9/11 was a terrible day for America. What’s worse is that a day that was supposed to bring us together, has divided us in so many different ways. People spent years arguing over what to build to replace those building and who was going to pay for it. Now the heroes of 9/11 are fighting to get someone to pay their mounting medical bills. The air they were told was safe to breathe at Ground Zero, obviously wasn’t safe, since our first responders are suffering cancers, lung diseases, skin diseases and other medical problems they couldn’t have imagined. They should be given the same care as returning soldiers and war vets because Ground Zero was a war zone. The latest battle tearing us apart is about the plans to build a mosque 2 blocks away from Ground Zero. Even TW and Pop are on different sides on this one. I’d say humans are acting like animals but that would insult us animals.

    Little House of Horrors

    It was a dark and stormy night! Actually, it was a beautiful summer morning, albeit a little chilly for August; but I always wanted to honor Snoopy by using that line. I found myself riding between the peeps in a cab, heading for trouble. Let me start at the beginning or begin at the start.

    Some weeks back, I wrote a blog about the peeps being worried about my health. Last Thursday night, I went off my dry kibble. I just decided I didn't want it. Sometimes a girl has to play hard to get—right? I refused to even step into the kitchen. TW decided she didn't like how fidgety I was in bed or the sounds I was making. I never thought I'd see it in my lifetime, but TW got up at 6 a.m. and told Pop we needed to go for a ride. We needed him to spend a lot of his $$ in a short amount of time.

    Calls were made and my carrier appeared out of nowhere. I sniffed around and remembered what happened last time I climbed into there. I shivered at the thought.
    Do I look terrified? Do I look pathetic enough?
    I didn't fall for the old food at the case trick; but Pop threw my favorite toy in and I followed. He slammed the door. I struggled mightily as he lifted and case and they went out the door. I howled like a banshee in the cab. All too soon, we were there.

    The house of horror
    Once inside the dreaded place, Pop placed me on the scale—I weigh 9 lbs.—which turned out to be the only thing that wasn't torture. What followed is pretty much a blur. They stuck a cold, sharp object up my butt; poked and probed every inch of my body and then said they had to take further tests. Yo, what do you mean, further tests? My temperature was normal and I didn't have an upper-respiratory infection so they wanted to make sure I didn't have something more sinister. Pop told them money was no object when it came to me and because he didn't want to be giving me antibiotics if I didn't need them. Remember, this was the place that misdiagnosed Autumn's cancer as a "gum infection." Needless to say, after 2 weeks of antibiotics, Autumn's cancer was not cured.

    Dr. Evil
    Doctor Evil, pictured at right, then took my blood, 2 full-body x-rays, gave me an injection of penicillin and subcutaneous fluids. Then came the final insult—GASP—they cut my claws! The final outcome—she still didn't know what exactly was wrong with me—was that I was dehydrated and had some inflammation in my intestines. I had a lot of intestinal gas—toot toot—probably from that starvation diet the peeps have me on or maybe from the Mexican food that HHGutt cooks for me. I'm only sorry this blog doesn't have odor-vision or scratch and sniff features. After looking at the x-rays, I now have conclusive evidence that I'm as stunning on the inside as I am on the outside.

    By Wednesday, my health still didn't please TW and she asked Pop to spend even more $$ and take me for another cab trip. If they thought it was hard getting me into the carrier Friday, it was a piece of cake compared to the fight I put up Wed. I admit defeat. They incarcerated me and we went off.

    More humiliation and more torture soon followed. More shots, more fluids, more probing was done by Dr. Evil, with ever the sinister smile on her face. The last straw was the microchip. I never go out—why do I need a microchip?? I get it, pick on the little ghetto cat.
    Amount of $$ V-E-T robbed from my Pop

    I'm home now and the good news is that I can have as much wet food as I can cram into my face and that after the shot, I don't need daily antibiotics. The bad news is that I suddenly prefer DRY kibble. I'm no longer dehydrated; just a little weak from all the peeps have put me through. I haven't started playing again either. Next time I stop eating, Dr. Evil has threatened to do an abdominal MRI. I figure I owe the peeps big time. Bites will be given out as soon as I feel better. Actually, the revenge began last night when I lunged at TW while she sat on the bed. Without claws, I tried to inpale my teeth in her back. My revenge WILL be sweet.