Stranger? How long has it been since you looked at a kitten and cried a single tear of existential despair? Well, that’s been too long!

No, we are not a happy kitten. No element of our existence is pleasant. Firstly, we have something very much like measles, or possibly chicken pox, or some other pox. Kitten pox. It’s an interesting, mathematically-precise version of measles, where each spot is precisely placed to maximize skin saturation. This is irritating, but probably not as bad as the deep well of kitten angst.

Kitten angst: Scourge of the 21st century. I think someone took her stick. Possibly it was a fish on a stick, possibly a flag for the great kitten nation (the parliamentary sessions kept getting disrupted by a laser pointer. Otherwise, it was great, really.)

I’m just going to stand here between the pots, and hope nobody sees me. Maybe I’ll pretend to be a pot, an empty vessel. I’m halfway there now. Empty. So empty.

Goodwill on South Lamar and Manchaca, Austin

Oh the things you find at Goodwill’s “Blue Hanear.” It’s kind of the place where thrift goes to die–vast bins of overstock, fractured ceramics, broken microwaves, and whatever the heck they couldn’t sell roll in, and move out the door for like $1.00 a pound. When a new aisle full of fresh bins open up, the stampede of bargain hunters is amazing–and frankly, I’m not surprised that there’s the occasional fatality.

I really feel for this poor guy. Life dealt him a few painful blows, and then, Blue Hangar. I’m not sure what he looked like when he was alive–kind of like a lion, I guess, but teetering around the Serengeti on stilts so that he could reach the succulent leaves on the topmost tree branches, maybe. But I know what he looked like after…Blue Hanger.

Oh god.

I’m going to suggest to any future designers of animatronic toys that any cute fuzzy creature’s natural, batteries-not-included state be “cheerfully awake with large, sympathetic eyes,” not “corpse.” The horrible black crust around the eyes and nose is not helping. Not at all.

Buy this one for your kiddo the next time they ask for a puppy. Put the batteries in first, the anticipation is more fun. Then the next time they pester you, ask, in a sweet voice, “Did you take care of your lion?” You can string this joke out for months. “Can I have a baby brother?” “Did you take care of your lion?” “Can I have dinner?” “Did you take care of your lion?”

Considering the therapy bills, a puppy might be cheaper.

All in all, a valuable lesson about life and death for the children. Or at least death.

Blue Hangar in South Austin

Here’s the sad, sad story of the cats at the lav.

When I saw this picture, I HAD to have it. It had drama. It had joy, it had anger. It had kilts. But mostly, it had cat people who really had to pee, and that, friends, is art.

As it happens, my mother lives about a block from a huge thrift store. In fact, it’s probably the only reason she ever sees me, that and when she has to post bail. And this…masterpiece…was on glorious display at that store for about two months.

If you’re anything like me, you’re saying, “It’s so beautiful.” And you are RIGHT. Images of a far-away land, a land with anthropomorphic cats, and a urinal in every driveway. I’m sure the owner of the bijou little restaurant under the stripy pavilion might prefer that the urinal was not in his or her driveway, but these things happen. A land with very, very tiny cars, cars so small that rather than instead of driving them, the cat-people sit on top of them and steer them with their toes.

And yet, the $30 pricetag seemed a little on the batshit crazy side, so I said…no.

And then, there was the Thanksgiving sale. The entire store, 1/3 off. “Oh mother,” I said, “I have been ever such a good boy this year, and if Santa Claus happened to pop by Thrift Town during the Thanksgiving Madness sale and buy me the picture of the cats peeing, I would be so very pleased.”

Christmas came, but this year was, obviously, the Christmas that Santa forgot. But at least I have memories. And magnification x10 photos.

So, I can handle outdoor urinals, sure, that’s fine. But I can’t handle that part of this tradition is that the next person in line gets to stare at you over the door. That seems a little invasive somehow. “Are you finished?” “I don’t know, you tell me.”

Am I misinterpreting? Probably. Hey, is that a mouse at the left? I bet she’s going to be finding a different stall.

I love the stall artwork. Sort of a “The great cavorting blond goddess Shirley Temple mocks the pathetic, full-bladdered catlings” thing.

“Dark master Cat-Satan says, ‘Did YOU bring exact change?’” The mouse, his strange court jester, nods frantically, lest she be devoured. It does no good, Cat-Satan devours all…but he devours mice first.

But really, it’s all about this. This is the rascal dog tugging at his master’s bikini, this is the “two bits” after the shave and a haircut.

He might want to see a doctor about that, though, that’s not a healthy color, and I’m not sure what to make about the naked fleshy legs. Cats shouldn’t shave their legs. He’s too young for such vanity.

Thrift Town near Stassney and Manchacha, and mom’s house, Austin

This is the cat that gave up. That’s it, it’s time to go to sleep. We no longer care about performing useful services like keeping the house pest-free, playing with yarn, or even making sure our nostrils are on straight. No, we are throwing in the catnip ball, because we have met the mouse. We have met the mouse, and we are afraid of the mouse.

Well, I’m afraid of the mouse, anyway. It’s some sort of horrible mouse automaton, chrome eyebrows, and chameleon eyes that roll crazily in two different directions. And it looks like it’s about to launch a golf ball across the room. It’s actually a rare mouse that can do that, most of them can’t take a golf ball, and have to content themselves with launching English peas across the table, frankly, not much of a threat.

Oh…and is this mouse married? It’s got a ring on its hand, even over its giant “rated for hazardous waste” thickness glove. Does that mean there’s a pair of them? That they’re breeding MORE of these gargantuan, golf-ball-spitting rodent terrors? Heaven help us. Heaven help us all.

Dear Aunt KC. Thank you for the unearthly hellmouse. Next year, please don’t.

Found together at the Goodwill on Lamar and Manchacha, Austin

Something went powerful wrong at the cat factory last week.

It wasn’t every day that the corpses of dead cats lurched to their feet in a stumbling mockery of life, mewling their alien hunger to the uncaring, breathing world. Really, it was only Wednesdays, because Wednesday was zombie cat day, had been for years. But this was a special Wednesday.

This Wednesday, Design had gone to a bit of extra effort in their zombie cat, added a touch of something special. Nobody’d ever thought to stitch a bit of dalmation fur into the mix for contrast, or add some floral print shower curtain for a splash of color, a way to add a tropical theme to the ol’ god-forsaken abomination.

Usually when they reanimate the cat, it moans and wanders in a more or less straight line. They didn’t often hide their face in embarrassment, but you really had to feel sorry for this one. Bad enough to be dead and stitched together from cat scraps. Worse that someone had a sense of whimsy about the entire thing.

Never did see that cat again. Kind of a relief.

Meow!

Take a walk on the wild side. Or at least, take a drink on the wild side. We don’t endorse drinking out of something wiht a picture of a leopard on it, particularly with no brand name, or ingredients, or even a warning label—”warning, may cause a leopard-like aftertaste in pregnant women.” We assume that if you pour yourself a tall glass of leopard, you’re probably pretty open-minded, and willing to suffer a bit for your beverage. But no-one suffers like Lumpo, the Special Needs Leopard.

The other leopards laughed at Lumpo. They did not laugh cruelly, because really, Lumpo the Leopard had it coming. Creatures that try to hunt down gazelles with whimsical hamhocks instead of forepaws need to be able to take a bit of good-spirited derision. And any top-level predator with a floral-print coat, even in neutral savannah tones, is going to get ribbed, just a little bit. Heck, even the aardwolves laughed at Lumpo. And they were fricking aardwolves.

But Lumpo wasn’t concerned.

He really had bigger things to worry about.

Like, why his eyes pointed in different directions, and the way his face occasionally faded into a vague blur. That REALLY worried Lumpo, though the hamhock thing was a bit of a concern. No-one likes their face smudged off into the ether, it’s undignified.

Lumpo the Leopard from Savers on South Lamar; Frankencat from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin.

“After I ate the SIXTH cake I was this big.”

This cat is intense. Those are the eyes of a cat who’s eaten one too many cans of dollar store tuna. Cans that she tore open with her teeth. And then, twitching under the feverish influence of discount seafood, she popped open a copy of Tammy Faye Bakker’s Cosmetic Secrets and went to town. These things seem like good ideas when you’re tripping on tuna.

Oh…but regarding that sixth cake? View her in all her glory.

“The oompa-loompas will just roll her out to the juicing room. For squeezing.”

It took me a while to figure this one out. I couldn’t place where I’d seen this cat before. I think it was the false eyelashes, glitter-green eyeliner, and feather boa, but the decadent velvet brocade, funny squishy hat, and INCREDIBLE GIRTH tipped me off.

It’s Henry the Eighth.

No, hear me out. Henry was slightly taller when he was lying down than when he was standing up. And that man could definately wear his gold brocade.

Seperated at birth? I think so.

Bad kittens are sent to the fourth circle of hell, where demons nail evil demonic minnows to their noses and tear off three of their legs. when they try to swat the fish away, they fall over. And how the minnows laugh.

Not sure why the cat’s wearing a gay pride skullcap. One of those weird gay cat monks, I guess. He may be part snail, thus the eyes.

So basically, if you want a one-legged, gay snail-cat, Goodwill’s got you covered. But you knew that.

Roundest Cat Evar from Savers on South Lamar. Crazy 80s cat from Goodwill on 2222, Austin.

Once again, I’ve let the kittens pile up, and I apologize. Take them, they’re yours.

It’s not widely known that Bastet, the goddess of perfume and cats, and Anubis, the Egyptian god of embalming, had a son, and that he was the Egyptian god of Cool—thus, the name Hep. Frankly Egyptologists only recently learned that the Egyptians had any fashion sense at all, since they were all wearing goatees and man-skirts long past when the French were doing the “tights, colored tunics, and flowing moustaches” look.

Hep’s role in the complex Egyptian afterlife was to judge the soul of the dead’s hairstyle, and whether they managed to avoid those frustrating lifetime skirt creases from accidentally putting any weight at all on linen. He would also issue forth scathing critiques of their kohl and henna. Any souls that were found unworthy were subjected to a most terrible and ferocious makeover.

And then there’s this guy.

We have clearly abandoned the usual stereotype of the noble lion, here. We have left Grace and Dignity’s house, through the garden out back, down the street, and are hunkering down in a portapotty next to Indolence, with Squalid banging on the door asking us what the hell we’re doing. This is not a lion, this is a chew-toy, and proud of it.

A face only a mother could gnaw on.

I’m not sure I would give this to my dog, even if it were a chew-toy. It would give her an even more inflated sense of her self-worth, at least until she figures out that lions aren’t generally made out of rope.

They’re really only impressive from the front. Turn a lion around, and it’s really less like a ferocious, man-eating predator, more like a Czechoslovakian cinnamon bun. Mmm, lionclaw. Smother that thing in melted butter and pass it over here!

One more for the road:

“Stop mocking me and light the damned pipe. I tied my hands together in a freak yoga accident, and I really don’t need you reminding me of my personal tragedy, thank you very much.”

Knotwork lion from Goodwill on Stassney and 183. Strangely cool cat from Salvation Army on 183, near Metric, Austin.

That one line, “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse,” has started quite a little industry. The Christmas market is endlessly reduplicative–there’s only a finite number of symbols that really say “Christmas,” so you have to really milk every new noun you have. So, merry christmouse.

This isn’t the best photo, but Autosharpen just couldn’t keep up with the demands, and when I used “Despeckle” the image just…vanished. Hang this combination wreath and mouse on the front door to set the tone for the Christmas party–awkward shuffling, muttered questions of “what does it *mean*?”) and, just possibly, a really big cheese plate–but strictly cheddar and Wheat Thins, this is a nice party that doesn’t put on airs. Only gingham.

Those eyes, like two felt cataracts. I’m not sure what it’s vaguely gesturing toward. Maybe it’s hoping someone will get it a Wheat Thin.

The Christmas Mouse tradition–note the iconography of the bow-around-tail–continued at a nearby Goodwill.

Better to zoom in a bit though, so you can see him in all his Christmas glory.

Not a happy mouse. Someone woke him up. And he doesn’t care if it’s Santa, the Tooth Fairy, or even the Pope, they’re going to regret this poorly-timed mouse call.

Not real sure what’s going on in his hand. Maybe a candle stick. Maybe a bong. Looking this closely at it, yeah, that red thing is probably a candle, but really it looks like one of the stripes of his pajama is inexplicably trying to reach closer to god, like an absurdist upraised pinkie. And usually candlesticks are brassy or wooden. Really, I’m thinking that particular shade of purple-pink is more reserved for adult items of an unusually intimate nature, though the shape really says “little Christmas mouse hash pipe” to me. You’d hope he’d be more mellow.

And nothing, nothing says “Merry Christmas” like maimed labradors.

All together! We wish you a broken puppy, we wish you a broken puppy. We wish you a broken puppy, with a truncated rear!

These were part of my post-holiday bargain shopping a few years ago, found in a big pile with all their other broken brethren, a small scattering of lost and forlorn body parts underneath. The sign said “50% off,” but to be fair, I think it looks more like only about 20%.

…so named because he was discovered by NASA for the space program. I don’t know.

This sad state of affairs very nearly came home with me. What says “Kid, give up on all your holiday dreams, you’re getting socks this year” like a dead unicorn in a glass ball? It’s like something Voldemort would hang up with the tinsel.

Put this one up next to an ornament showing a Department Store Santa cashing his paycheck for three bottles of Jack Daniel’s, and maybe a very small, festive treatise on the Historical Jesus. Go for a theme this year.

And lastly, what’s more seasonal than a Christmas Goose?

Don’t worry, Mr. Bear. It’s only once a year, it’ll be New Years soon and the booze will take the shame and humiliation of Christmas away in a nice, champagne-colored haze.

Puffy Quilted Christmas Mouse from the Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock, painted, surly Christmas Mouse from goodwill on 2222. Maimed labradors from Goodwill near 620 on 183, dead unicorn ornament from Savers on North Burnet near 2222, and Quacky the “Take It!!” Christmas Goose from Goodwill on 2222.

Come on! Don’t be shy! It’s a bright, beautiful day, just like you! Turn around, let’s see your smiling face, little kitten!

Ooh. Never mind.

So, what we have here is, well, there’s a certain degree of inspiration. Spotted shell, spotted cat. Brilliant. I can’t see anything wrong with the concept.

Except…except that it calls to mind images of huge cat heads that, independent of their bodies, scuttle around on the ground on crablike legs. When someone brushes them aside they land on their backs, mewing pitifully and rocking from side to side, IF they’re lucky enough to have the extra long tail that reaches the ground. Most aren’t that lucky, end up kicked aside, where they land under the sofa and gather thick balls of dust bunnies, in the vain hope that a fur coat will make them cute enough that they’ll be put back on the display rack.

The weird looking little orange tongue is a nice touch, too. It’s kind of like he’s eating a huge chunk of pumpkin. I’m not sure why someone glued a spider to the poor little thing’s face, though, it didn’t deserve that.

Actually, yes it did. Cowries are horrible little creatures. They probably mug other smaller snails, kick them over, take their lunch money, write rude messages on their shells.

Number two on the Minimal Effort Kitten Parade, and just in time for the holidays–another refugee from Planet Space Cat, where tiny catlings with vast, all-knowing blue eyes STARE INTO YOUR SOUL and EAT YOUR SOULMICE. This one’s a little more sinister-looking than its more benevolent, all-seeing cousin. This one…this one has plans.

Okay, maybe these plans involve finding some glowing green milk to slowly drink, yawn a tritium yawn, and curling up in a small black ball with two tiny blue moons peering over its tail, but they’re calculating moons that are counting the moments until you turn your back. Then, then…the kitten will probably go to sleep. Really, it’s a kitten, even the most long-term plans they have don’t extend past their whiskers.

Shell Kitten found at Savers on Burnet near 2222, Black Kitten with Blue Eyes…ah…I forget. Its mind control powers are terrifying.

It’s not their BEST-known animal, but the pouched cat of Australia had a long and proud history. They were a strange, stiff-necked breed, not actually related to the housecat at all, except in a sort of “read about it in a magazine, tried the same haircut” way. Unlike most marsupials, they could carry up to three offspring, one in its pouch, and two in its round, round cheeks.  The species is extinct now, accidents did happen.

Or, maybe, it’s some sort of strange cat-shaped gavel. Or a cleverly cat-shaped storage device that holds a single, precious green pea, or more likely three toothpicks. Except…except it doesn’t really. You stand it up, give it a single, beautiful legume, the cat throws itself to the side, the pea rolls out, the world basically ends. All this because someone forgot to give him a left foot.

Well, they probably did. It was huge, remiped sort of thing, a great flapping monstrosity of an appendage longer than the poor thing is wide. But with just the one, it topples left, rolls about, flings itself from the shelf like a tiny, inexpensive lemming. No wonder its nose is red.

This is TOTALLY the front cover of my next album. The one with sixteen songs about clowns.

Our producer, Dr. Chance, asserts that this is not actually a cat, but it is, in fact, a mudkip. To Dr. Chance I say, Fah! Of course it’s a cat! It’s made of wood and has one foot, just like my inaccurately named cat, Nibbles, who doesn’t. Please keep these weird theories to yourself, sir.

Mudkip found at Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock