Nanny Slave Update

Remember Nanny Slave? Typing Slave’s “baby” sister who used to live in Wisconsin and keep house for the Party Cats. Well, she and the Party Cats moved back to TN and now the Party Cats are at Grandma Slave’s house. Nanny Slave now is married to a male human called The Moke and as of recently is working on a pink thing of her own. She’s having a really tough time of the pregnancy, according to Typing Slave, alternating between bed and hospital. I, Meankitty, have only seen her once since her body became infested with young, which is disappointing because when humans are stuck in bed, they’re really easy prey. Not to mention when they’re stuck in the recliner holding a teeny human.

Anyway. Nanny Slave sent an email to my human this morning and gave us permission to reprint it here because it shows just how meanly awesome the new cats in her life are:

A Typical Morning
By: Nanny Slave

It’s a typical morning here at casa de me. My alarm went off at 6am, waking me from a vivid nightmare about deformed babies and house fires. As I struggle to sit up and fumble down my nausea medicine, the Moke’s alarm goes off in his room. [[Typing Slave would like to explain here that Nanny and the Moke use separate bedrooms & bathrooms due to Nanny’s health issues and not marital discord.]] I hear the first thump–Dean getting up–and then the Moke’s feet hit the floor. The Moke grumbles the same grumbles at Dean on the way to the bathroom, “You can’t nibble me at 3am, dammit” or “Dean, your butt was touching my face again.” [[Meankitty’s note: hehehehe butt to face, butt to face!]]

[[Pictured: Nanny Slave and Kid2 aka Loud Thing on Halloween. Doesn’t she look good with a kid beside her?]]

I get up and go to my bathroom to pee. When I open the door to come out, there’s Winnie. Rarely, she sleeps with one of us, but for the most part, we have no idea where she goes at night. I get back in bed; Winnie gets up in my face in an annoying, cat-breathy sort of way. [[Meankitty: I may or may not have taught Winnie to lick her butt before inflicting cat breath.]] She gets in some good stomps on my extraordinarily tender boobs before I push her at least to the side of my body.

During the Moke’s morning constitutional, Dean lumbers over to my bedroom door, blinking sleepily at me and Winnie.

The Moke comes in on his way downstairs, also blinking sleepily, to get the a.m. update on puking, hospital trips, general feelings. Winnie and Dean follow him out when he leaves.

Downstairs, I hear the Moke filling cat bowls and gathering his own breakfast and snacks for the day. Within ten minutes, he’s out the door. By this point, I COULD be drifting back to sleep. I’m hungry, but I’m also still partially asleep and could theoretically get in more shut-eye before I have the brave the squalid kitchen to find food. Except…

Dean has started yelling. Every morning after the Moke leaves for work, Dean stomps around the house HOWLING for twenty damn minutes. That gets Winnie all riled up, so she finds some loud-ass jingle ball and brings it upstairs to bat around in my bedroom floor. My plans to expand my zzzzz’s are shot.

And Dean is still yelling.

Meankitty & Typing Slave *

Pretty Kitty

There’s a kitty in this house who’s meaner than Meankitty. In fact, I have it on good authority this particular feline is meaner than:

Mom, snakes, Wayne Johnson, pooty pants, a rattlesnake, bears, booboo heads, boys (she kicks their butts and gives them a stinky old ratty brush), bad dogs, tigers, lions, talking trees, bad teachers, spiders, herself and everything.

This horrible mean feline is named Pretty Kitty.

If you know anything about youth culture — youth culture of the pre and grade school variety — you’ll recognize Pretty Kitty as a Littlest Pet Shop toy. But that’s only her origin story. This summer she’s morphed into the bossiest, meanest, sneakiest, most hateful, evilest toy ever to grace our household. I like to think it’s in honor of Meankitty and this being HER household as much as ours, hence my post on the topic.

My kids have been playing a lot of LPT lately. When I chance to listen in, I hear a lot about what a spiteful craphead Pretty Kitty is. She beats up dogs and boys, excludes all the toys who are different from her, makes them do all her chores and clean her house, steals their stuff, sends them to jail, makes them eat — well, we won’t go into that.

Nanny Slave is convinced her cat Winnie is Pretty Kitty incarnate, although she has yet to prove that to my satisfaction. I think this is probably a better representation of what Pretty Kitty looks like but when I showed this to Kid2 she got highly offended and pointed out that Pretty Kitty is pretty, first and foremost. Because being pretty is of such GREAT importance in this household (snort!).

Kids are weird.

JW *

Winnie Vs The Cone

A couple months ago, you may recall that Nannyslave gifted us with a little tale about the new loves of her life–Winnie and Dean–and their adolescent woes. Dean survived his ordeal without having to get restitched and Nannyslave has sent us a photo to go with the tale about Winnie’s experience.

From Nannyslave:

Picked Winnie up at 4:30pm this afternoon after the vet made an honest woman out of her. Turns out that, yes, she was in heat, so the surgery cost extra money. She is always a yowly, mewly, up-in-your-face kind of cat, so we hadn’t even noticed much difference. Since Dean was himself deactivated last week [[aka 2 months ago, because the humans are slackers]], he has not been interested in her bits.

These new-fangled girly cat operations involve an incision of barely an inch and all internal sutures with some kind of creepy skin-glue holding the wound together. After she got home, she spent the first five minutes running up and down the stairs, which she isn’t supposed to do. Then she (and Dean) settled in to lick at her belly. We had already gotten a cone of shame for her after the Dean scenario, so we whipped it out and poked it on. Turns out the one they sent home with us was way big, so we dug out Dean’s bedraggled cone and put that on her instead.

Apparently, Winnie is smarter than Dean. I hope I didn’t give anyone a heart attack with that shocker. She had the stupid cone off within fifteen minutes and was smacking it all around the front hallway in an insolent manner. More belly-licking commenced, so we had to re-tie the cone on tighter and hope for the best. The wound is already starting to look red and swollen. At least now it is only Dumb Dean doing the licking.

Note: Winnie did not have to go back and get restitched, either, and never spent more than a couple minutes in the cone before figuring out how to get it off.

Note 2: Nannyslave has saved the largest cone for The Moke to put on him when he’s bad.

Note 3: Not really. But that would be funny!

Meankitty & Typing Slave *

Cone of De-Manning Shame

Update from Nanny Slave about Dean:

“Well, the poor guy made it home, no problems during surgery. The vet said he did NOT give Dean the extra shot of pain killer, as kitty boy did not seem unusually pained. We have to keep him on “reduced activity” for a few days and keep an eye on the incision site (aka stare at his junk). Can’t let him lick or worry at the area excessively. The Moke commented that he personally would be quite worried if someone had cut up his junk.

Unfortunately, Dean is also worried. And licking and chewing at the “site.” Thus, The Moke has gone to the vet to pick up……dum dum duuuuuum…..a Cone of Shame!” (photo included)

But please don’t feel too sorry for the little junk biter, despite his pitiful, accusing stare at The Moke, who managed to be outside the lens area. Right before the photo was taken, NS said he was kicking toy mouse butt all over the room, unhindered by the cone.

De-Manning the Man Cat

From Nanny Slave, an update about the new cats who rule her that Grandma Slave says are never, ever, ever setting foot in her house, but she also said the same thing about me, Meankitty, and I’ve been there several times already:

“Took Dean down for the Big Snip this morning. He wrestled me on his way into the cat carrier and then complained loudly the whole two miles to the vet’s office.

The paperwork I had to fill out included a “yes” or “no” option for a pain injection post-surgery. This was something new to me — apparently, they can send you home with a few pills or you can opt to have kitty shot up before he returns home? The well-meaning gals at the front desk were confused by my questions regarding this. I mean, is this in place of regular anesthetic? Why would Dean need significant post-op pain relief? How long-lasting is the pain injection? What the hell is going on?

Anyway, they called the vet up front to talk to me. He saw it was me and laughed. How nice to already have THAT kind of relationship with my pet care provider. Dr. P said that the pain injection fulfilled several purposes; it relieves the worries of overprotective pet owners (oh, my poor kitty must be miserable) and keeps pain pills out of homes (oh, my scary neighbors might break in for the animal tranqs). Also, he said, believe it or not, some pets are not completely willing to take pills. Shock me.

I told the doc to make the call, if Dean seems very much in pain by the afternoon, go ahead and shoot him up before I pick him up. I sent The Moke a text on the matter and his only concern was whether the shot would be administered into Dean’s manly bits, and if so, the answer is no.

Meanwhile, Winnie is ALL OVER ME.”

Ok, it’s me again, Meankitty. Here is a picture of that rowdy teenage boy kitty Dean pre-snippage for you to enjoy. Like The Moke, he enjoys dominating the TV remote and the game controller. It remains to be seen if the big snip makes Dean less mokey, more mean or has no effect whatsoever.


NS via Meankitty

Party Cats: The Desertion

The Party Cats, described in detail in the recent post about the skunk spray episode, are four strong. At their peak, there were seven and it was good, but old age and illness takes even the meanest and most partying felines away all too soon.

The significant thing about the Party Cats at Grandma Slave’s house is that Grandma swears none of them are hers. Which is funny — they live at her house and eat her food and poop in the catbox she changes and sleep on her bed and bring dead things onto her porch, while Nanny Slave lives with The Moke at a brand new house and Typing Slave lives with me (Meankitty), Big D and the gang in my feline palace. And moreover, it appears NS has been adopted not only by The Moke but by 2 new kittens, named Dean and Winnie for some blokes on a show called Supernatural, which really doesn’t have enough about cats in it, so *I* don’t give 2 inedible beans about it.

I just care that Nanny S and The Moke keep showing up over here smelling like new cats. Like the Party Cats weren’t bad enough. Can we be sure Dean and Winnie are the proper kind of cats, meankitties who will one paw NS and the Moke and puke a lot and run around like beasts and stare at things that aren’t there until the Moke gets the creeps? (NS is immune to this, unless she’s on certain antibiotics or is overtired.)

BTW….Sam is the dope who got sprayed by the skunk and then sat there in the sink like a lump on a log, allowing Grandma Slave to bathe him with Dial handsoap. And WATER. Like…OMG, cat, what are you, a DOG?

I hereby revoke Sam’s SOHC membership. He’s totally an ONS now. And a dope.

Here is a picture of Dean and Winnie. The Moke is already kowtowing to their every demand, but I hear they’re having a tougher time getting NS in line. I can give them some pointers when they’re old enough.



Meankitty Wants to Know: Nanny Slave

We had an enforced hiatus in December 09, so now we’re back, all refreshed and stuff, with several great new interviews for you in 2010. Let’s start with a reader this week, the infamous Nanny Slave, my human’s sister.


1) Do you live with any cats? Please state names, ages, appearances and temperaments of the cats.

Meankitty, you won’t believe this, but right now, I DO NOT live with any cats. There are few stuffed cats, some cat wrapping paper, cat magnets on the fridge, and a cat calender on the wall, but no actual living, breathing kitties. It is a brand-new house (new to me, anyway) and no cats have decided to live here yet.

[[[Pictured: Meankitty and Nanny Slave. Nanny Slave claims she doesn’t like me.]]]

2) If you want to tell us about any humans in the house, that’s okay too. But you don’t have to.

There is a man that lives here, too. He is a pretty good egg. But not a cat.

3) How much do you desert your cats (leave the house for things like “jobs” and “school”)?

Since I have no cats, I would have to say that I never desert them. HOWEVER, if you want to get technical, I suppose you could say that I have two cats that I permanently deserted at Grandma Slave’s house. Their names are: Sam, age 6, solid jet black, temperament=big dummy & Gray, age 3, gnarly gray tabby, temperament=bad.

HOWEVER (AGAIN), Sam & Gray probably want to stay at Grandma Slave’s house, where they get to hang outside on the 40+ acres of wilderness or inside all over the many soft kitty beds. At my new house, they would be forced to reside only inside in less than 2000 sq. ft. of suburban space. Plus, Grandma Slave won’t let me have Sam back. And I don’t want Gray back.

4) How much do you read and what do you usually read?

I read a lot. I usually read cruddy free romance downloads, books about nature, books about teaching, and books about teaching about nature. Sometimes I read the same fantasy books I have been re-reading since I was in junior high.

5) Does your reading detract from your time spent worshipping cats or running a cat sanctuary? (If you don’t worship cats or run a cat sanctuary, perhaps you should consider cutting back on reading, working that day job, sleeping and cleaning to make time for more important things.)

Reading does not really get in the way of my ability to adequately worship cats; in fact, some of the books I read actually feature cats in leadership roles. Or at least, they should. Come to think of it, maybe I need to be reading different books…

6) Why do you think cats are better than dogs? (Since you call yourself a lover of words, I trust your answer will be eloquent.)

Cats never eat their own poop. Dogs do. Who needs eloquence?

7) Tell me about the felines in your favorite books. How often do they appear and how big a part do they play in the narratives?

One of my favorite series by Susan Dexter stars a cat named Thomas in a headlining role. Not only is he the cleverest character in the books, but he is also fastidiously neat and occasionally naughty. Another fave read, “The Fur Person” by May Sarton, highlights the comings and goings of a feline so much smarter and more interesting than the humans in the book, the author named the book after the cat himself, as opposed to naming it after some petty trials the humans go through.

8) On the off-chance you have yet to read books about cats, when do you plan to rectify this egregious error and demonstration of poor literary taste?


[[[Meankitty’s Note: I think you guys should all recommend some cat books for NS.]]]

9) Perhaps you’ve read a few books about cats and perhaps you haven’t (but will). Chances are you haven’t read the perfect book about cats yet, but even if you think you have, cats are so awesome there’s clearly more than one perfect book about cats. What narrative elements or plot points do you think a perfect book about cats would have in it?

Essential elements in a catty book would include: cats outwitting humans, cats outwitting dogs, cats outwitting horses, cats outwitting elephants (although elephants are incredibly intelligent, so this one is a stretch), and cats outwitting more humans. I would especially appreciate having a cat outwit a female character’s male love interest in a clever ruse that ends in said male love interest admitting his undying devotion to said cat. Then, of course, the cat would ignore the male from then on. That would be a good book.

10) In your experience, do you think cats would make better superstars of fiction, comics, movies or television? Please explain your choice with superlatives about feline gloriousness or at least something that makes sense to the humans reading this.

I am not going to answer this question, as it is too long and has too many big words. I admit it, you are smarter than me, Meankitty.

11) Speaking of movies, what are your favorite works of cinema involving cats?

None, really. Most movie cats are fake and I like real cats. Although that Lucifer in “Cinderella” has some sneaky tricks up his fur that seem quite meankitty-ish…..

12) Can you pet one cat while you read?


14) Can you pet two cats while you read?

Almost definitely.

15) Can you pet three or more cats while you read?

Very likely.

[[[Concluded: I don’t believe that she doesn’t like me. Do you?]]]



Meankitty & Jody W. *

A Query about The Storage Unit

A faithful reader has asked a most important question and The Party Cats have threated to pull my acount privileges if I don’t answer.

Q: “Nanny Slave, how much of the junk in your Storage Unit is cat-related?”

A: An interesting question, indeed. I would have to say that only about 10% of the junk in my storage unit is cat-related. At first, this might seem like a low percentage, considering the general cattiness of my life. However, one must consider that we are talking about my junk in storage, which is junk that is not actively being used by me or the various cats that share ownership of me. Obviously, all the many cat toys, cat bowls, cat pans, cat furniture, pieces of cat art, clothing featuring cat themes, and books about cats are in current use. The cats wouldn’t tolerate anything less.

Coming soon — photos of junk!

Nanny Slave

The Storage Unit

The Party Cats have graciously allowed me, Nanny Slave, to utilize their account to perform this guest blogging stint. Readers of Writer & Cat, please bear with me. I’ve got some stuff to say….

Throughout my 30+ years, I have lived in a variety of environs. An assortment of dorm rooms, apartments, and houses in several different states, really. Not that I could rattle off the address of any of these locales if queried, so I’ll be in trouble if I ever get audited. (Wait, do they even bother to audit people who make less than 10k a year? And can’t they just call up the IRS for my previous mailing addresses? But then again, it would be the IRS doing the auditing, wouldn’t it? Hmmm, a circular conundrum, indeed.) Over the years, in all of these places, I acquired things. Lots of wonderful things. I even acquired a roommate for 8 of those years and he also acquired things. Lots of random, useless, stupid things. When I moved home to live with my mother a few years ago (because I am that awesome), I had to procure a Storage Unit for to house all these things. Considering that I was moving home to live with my mother, I was not in a tip-top state of mind at this point in my life and packed accordingly: open box, fill with nearby things, shut box, tape. Clink, tinkle, clang. Oh, did something break? Pffft. Repeat 99 times. The former roommate (hereafter FR) skipped out of the picture with nary a glance back at his many things. And in said Storage Unit all these things, the roommate’s and mine, have nestled for almost 4 long years, waiting for their chance at a grand resurrection, to again bring me great clutter and joy. And perhaps great rage as well, considering the percentage of things that are not even mine and yet here I am having to deal with them.

Anyway, that time has come! A wonderful man has fallen madly in love with me and is buying me a house in which to reside with him forever more. However, as I want this man to continue to love me madly, I hesitate to drag quite all of the THINGS to the fabulous new home. Thus, I must throw open the gates of Storage and sift through my past in all its disorderly glory. As a precursor, here is a list of possible items I will encounter along the way:

1. Four curling irons and two sets of hot rollers. Which is funny because I have had less than two inches of hair for most of the past 18 years. And I have certainly never had the mad tonsorial skills required to wield such equipment.

2. A large box of stuffed monkeys of assorted sizes, colors and species. Plus, some plastic Smurfs, a stuffed Lurky (a la Rainbow Brite), and a few Barbie dolls.

3. Large amounts of discarded metal, including a lawn mower engine, the innards of a Wang computer, aluminum siding, and/or the muffler of a 1982 Buick Regal. FR fancied himself a bit of an industrial artist and planned to create an homage to scrap. HE was SCRAP.

4. A skateboard that I stole from this guy I had a big crush on and hid in the bottom of my closet and forgot about until after I had realized he was a turd and then obviously, like I was going to give it back then?

5. Some unused Pampers from the time my sister, mom, and baby niece drove to Wisconsin to visit me. I kept them around in case I ever found a baby and it needed a diaper change.

6. Billing statements from my dorm room phone line 15 years ago. All paid in full, of course. But still available, just in case…..

7. A matching but battered green chair and ottoman from my grandmother’s house. It used to sit in my great-aunt’s bedroom next to the smelly armoire with the squeaky drawers. The chair used to be flowered, but Granny covered it with green using a staple gun. My mom hates that chair.

8. More than 40 cookbooks. None that have been used, though, since I don’t cook. But with lovely photographs of food that someone else cooked.

9. Several tens of overdraft notices from when FR opened a bank account with $50 and wrote nearly $200 of checks while having no cash flow with which to replenish the account. Did I mention that he was SCRAP?

10. One of those save-your-back exercise balls for doing sit-ups. But my cat gnawed through the tube of the pumper-upper, although it took me 20 minutes to figure this out the time I tried to air up the ball and crunch my way to six-pack abs. Hey, now I can blame the cat for my flabby gut!

Anyway, stay tuned. This is going to be a wild ride.

The Force Was With Me

And by that I mean, the humans had to “force” me out of their way when they were working on their Halloween costumes the past two weeks. Every year they do this. I can’t for the life of me figure out WHY, but they seem to enjoy it.

Typing Slave got the four grown up Jedi and one small Princess Leia costumes done in time for the humans to hit the dark and spooky trail at the zoo this past week-end, but it was a struggle, and I’m proud to say that I was part of that struggle!

Here are some illustrations of my tricksy cleverness:

Typing Slave conned the other humans into helping with the costumes–some folderol about since they were the ones who wanted to wear them, they had to work for it. Both Food Slave and Nanny Slave got a taste of cutting out a sewing pattern. Neither had done such a thing before and probably won’t do it again. You can see that they had exceptionally gifted assistance from myself.

There was a better picture my booty in Nanny Slave’s face, but Nanny Slave said it showed “too much” (too much what, of my booty?? no such thing!) and wouldn’t let us post it. At one point Big D was getting in on the pesky action until he heard the rattle of the treat bag in the kitchen, at which point he deserted me for food. Not that I needed his help to get on Nanny Slave’s last nerve.

I also spent quite a bit of time three inches from the sewing machine whenever TS was using it, vulturing her and making her worry I was going to playfully stick my paw under the needle. As if! And of course every square inch of their costumes was covered in cat hair. I took naps on any fabric I could find strewn about, and lately I’ve been working on the orange velvet trick or treat bags TS is creating for the “big night”.

Pink Thing’s Leia costume was completed first, except for the crazy bun hat, which was a ski cap with crocheted lumps pinned to the sides. TS swears she’s going to crochet a more appropriate cap to go with the buns, but here she is on the computer instead of crocheting now that she has a day with Loud Thing at the sitter.

Nanny Slave in full Jedi regalia, accompanied by the smallest and greenest Jedi, Mistress Yoda. The Yoda costume was store-bought.

Originally, TS intended to make Lego masks for everyone, since Lego Star Wars was the inspiration for the costumes and not, as might be assumed, the live action movies or cartoon that was recently released in theaters. The masks did not come to pass, which is a good thing because she would have done such a terrible job, nobody would have “gotten” it.

So say me all.