This Fuzzbucket, whom The Colonel calls “Simon” but I refuse to, is a blighted, temperamental, imperious, haughty, fiendish, indolent, fur-generating pestilence.

You see, The Colonel just isn’t herself unless she’s tripping over a cat or changing a litterbox; in fact a few hundred years ago when she announced that she was moving in, the deal came with three cats.

After the last of those three cats checked out, I enjoyed a brief stint in a refreshing cat-free environment, but alas, things were too good to be true, and The Colonel soon began a campaign to reintroduce The Feline Motif.

That story is found on the blog post “The Feline Horror of Mortgage Manor”, and it was about a Ragdoll cat I (incredibly) got to name McGee, after my fav author John D MacDonald’s much-beloved character, Travis McGee.

However, disaster soon struck as lil’ McGee snuck into a half-loaded clothes drier when The Colonel turned around to help with Harding’s potty training.  No one realized until the cycle had finished, and…well…it was all over then.

Through manly tears, I broke the news to Hudson about McGee, and as the snuffles wound down, he asked if we could get another kitty.

“Sure, son” I said, magnanimously.

AND I DON’T WANT A SIAMESE!!!” he bawled anew.

Fast forward a few weeks and Hudson and I went to the airport to pick up this new pestilence, who had to be flown in from the breeder in Regina (my pleas for the sane and rational idea of getting something from the econo-bin at the Humane Society falling on deaf ears.  Again.) Simon, as they named this blasted cat, is out of the next batch from the same mother, making him, I’m told, the half-brother of McGee.  But they’re very different cats.

If McGee was Arnold, then Simon is Danny DeVito.

Ragdolls are supposed to be affectionate, quiet, and non-shedding.  Maybe some are, but not That Damn Cat.

He’s a good-looking cat, sure, but he’s about as affectionate as a fish.

Like all cats he likes to sleep lots, and likes to lie down in inconvenient places like fruit bowls and laundry baskets full of freshly folded clothes.

But That Damn Cat has a sinister streak that includes sneaking bites out of one’s instep, and he chases Harding all over the house (okay, that’s kind of funny).

I can’t have him in my studio, because the vermin insists on activities such as: jumping on whatever I’m drawing, chewing on computer cables, knocking gewgaws off of my shelves and desk, chewing on book spines, and that old standby, helping himself to a chaw on whatever undefended foot he finds.

Because he’s a cat, he has that infuriating compulsion to go into any room he’s not currently standing in. This means that while I’m trying to tend to my day’s labors, he’s more often than not hollering to be let in.

So as far as quiet goes, he’s anything but, and he’s got this penetrating way of yowling when he wants his can of gunk that’s reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard.

As for non-shedding, one spring when the weather warmed up enough to open the windows for the first time, a cool breeze wafted through the master bedroom, and a great raft of cat hair flowed out from under our bed and flew down the stairs.

“Look!  A kitty-tumbleweed!” called Harding.

It seems that there’s about a 14 square inch spot under the bed where the vacuum doesn’t reach, and this is where That Damn Cat had built a sort of nest out of himself.  Cut to a scene of an indignant Owen deadlifting the sleigh bed and a horrified Colonel frantically vacuuming underneath.

There was so much hair that we could’ve added some water and made Fuzzbucket a new cousin or something.

So, I contend that That Damn Cat isn’t exactly what’d been advertised.

And That Damn Cat almost cashed in his chips not long ago when I, snoozily padding back to a dark 3 am bed from a quick trip to the biffy, felt something slap my chest.  I leapt about 3 feet straight up and clacked my teeth together before I realized that That Damn Cat had been sitting on the dresser and decided to bat a paw out and scare five years off of me.

Yeah, very funny…