jouet pour chat

The chat, in this case, being Scooter Thomas.

Ben’s colleagues were kind enough to give him, as a birthday present, a cowboy cat costume. Not for himself, of course. (At least one hopes.)

Since this is surely what they wanted…

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The Vores Go Zoolander

On Saturday, August 22nd, Ben and Erin gave each other the gift of a lifetime in honor of their fifth anniversary. A baby? No. A membership to the cheese-of-the-month club? Guess again. Any number of communicable diseases? No siree. A photo shoot with the fabulously talented Jenny Beck (a Columbus-based photographer and sister of Erin’s friend from Miami, Kelly)? You betcha! Jenny took photos in three locations: our back patio, Pioneer Park in Montgomery, and the United Dairy Farmers in Blue Ash.

Behold the creative power of Jenny’s lens:

Thank you so much for spending time with us, Jenny!  We had so much fun and think you could take Annie Leibovitz any day.

Check out Jenny’s work here.

So Your Cat Wants A Massage?

Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas asked for the opportunity to address the viral video, “So Your Cat Wants A Massage?” We have agreed to let him write today’s post.

x

Ahem.

Thank you, owners, for the opportunity to comment upon a certain Internet video which explains, in scintillating detail, the carnal pleasures you can afford your feline through the simple but salacious technique known as “cat massage.”

Haven’t seen it? Here it is. (And a hat tip to Ryan Mecum for calling this to my owners’ attention.)

Phew! I need to take a cold shower!

Several thoughts:

1) Is there a luckier cat on the face of the earth than Champ? That devil.

2) Use two hands indeed! What’s that lazy left hand doing while the right one strokes our chinny chin chin? Put it to work!

3) The instructor (or “angel from God,” I don’t know which) hits on a crucial point when she explains the variant ways humans and felines experience time. What may seem “excruciatingly slow” to you, you harried, manic and forever-in-motion nitwits, is to cats an expanse of orgiastic pleasure stretching to infinity.

4) In thinking upon my “best mega-meow moments,” three come to mind:

The first was when my owners gave me my first (and still only) Kitty Hooch toy.

The second was when I was neutered. That was a mega-meow moment in the wrong direction.

The third was the rapturous experience of hearing Wilhelm Furtwängler conduct the Vienna Philharmonic in performing Brahms Symphony No. 1 in C Minor. What majesty!

5) I do want to touch upon the unfortunate tendency of the feline body to drool during moments of intense physical pleasure. As the instructor notes, we do sometimes forget to swallow, a lamentable trait that has not yet been purged from our collective genetic make-up through natural selection. But it is indeed a “very expressive and unconscious form of approval,” so have a towel or something ready for us, please.

6) I’m a bit touchy about having my chest muscles stroked, but I know other cats who would kill for such treatment. Consult your feline before diving in.

7) It is just a matter of time before your cat will start “demanding” cat massage. Better to acquiesce to our needs. Remember: We know where you sleep!

At this point, proceed directly to your feline of choice and introduce him or her to seventy times seven minutes of heaven.

Thank you.

Our Cat Is More Patriotic Than Your Cat

Happy July 4th.

Scooter Thomas Calls Shenanigans

Our Monday post this week chronicled our decline into rabid obesity ever since we got married. Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas asked for the opportunity to respond to our portrayal of him in said post, and to what he called our “malicious slander and contemptuous imbecility.” In an effort to make him stop barfing all over the house, we have granted his request.

 

libel - noun –  1 a : defamation of a person by written or representational means  b :  the publication of blasphemous, treasonable, seditious, or obscene writings or pictures.

Libel, dear friends. The kind of word that makes one shudder. Or at least, one would shudder if one had, say, a soul.

But I’m beginning to question whether or not my contemptible owners in fact do have a soul. Let’s consider the evidence:

In the plus column, they are usually consistent in refilling my food dish on a daily basis. I might prefer it to be attended to a bit more frequently than that, but no matter.

They find time in their oh-so-busy schedules to remember that I, being a cat, am forced into the humiliating necessity of pooping in a tiny one foot by two foot box, and that this box, about every other day or so, needs to be scooped of my excrement. I certainly do not want to be accused of failing to appreciate their efforts in this arena.

Finally, they will, on very special occasions, purchase toys for my recreational pleasure, notably colorful mice filled with delicious, delirious catnip. And on very very special occasions, they treat me to the Cadillac of feline toy products, Kitty Hooch.

Truly, I want to acknowledge that my owners are not complete and total monsters. They are what one might call serviceable, making the occasional (though rare) gesture at something above the status quo of parental obligation. One might do worse, I suppose.

I think we’ve now exhausted the plus column. On to the negatives:

These perverse ogres find inexplicable joy in depicting me in a light which is not merely unflattering but downright degrading, riddled with caricature, reckless with slander, and profane in every particular. Based on a recent post on their contemptible blog, they would have you believe I am so portly that I cannot even launch myself onto their bed. Ha! I call shenanigans! Not only can I jump on their bed, I can occasionally do it without a running start and the gravity-defying assistance of those kind angels whose wings bear me up just long enough to reach the edge, at which point I may need to scrap and claw just a tad to leverage my bulk over the precipice. 

My owners would have you believe a smorgasbord of outright lies pertaining to some of my physical characteristics. For example, that my percentage of body fat is 82%. Imagining a creature of such corpulence is positively disgusting to consider. As I consult my file here for the results of my last trip to the vet, I see that my body fat clocks in just a shade over 50%. No, I may not be a model of trim svelteness, but I’m also not late Marlon Brando.

My owners would also have you believe that I am so demented — my psyche so contorted by an insatiable need to satisfy my hunger — that I have at times considered them as prospective food for my consumption. This is where we must revisit the definition of slander. Is such a claim blasphemous? Check. Treasonable? Check. Seditious? You betcha. Obscene? Ding ding ding ding ding! We have a winner! Come on down, owners, and claim your trophy! You’ve just won yourselves a lawsuit, suckers!

I will not rest until restitution has been made. Unchecked, my owners would shred the very fabric of a decent, moral society. Believe nothing they say, dear reader. I am not the beast they would have you believe I am. Consider the plaintive look on my face so that you too may feel but a fraction of my outrage and a portion of my yearning for justice. Thank you.

 

Scooter Thomas Voreslang

It’s been awhile since we did a Voreslang, and it occurred to us this week that — like parents with children — we have invented our own language for our cat, Scooter Thomas. What follows is a primer for communicating with any feline who reads Proust.

 

“Be sweet.”  A command against potentially bad behavior. Usually delivered when Scooter Thomas’s ears go back and his tail begins twitching furiously. If ST chooses to obey this order, he will commonly resort to “licks” (see below). If not, he will launch a furious attempt to draw blood by piercing our skin with his incisors. 

“Climbing Mount Mew.”  The act of lying on top of us in bed. Usually the summit of Mount Mew is our back, shoulders or, occasionally, forehead. This gesture is Scooter Thomas’s way of saying, “You probably already suspect I’m on the bed with you, but I’m going to make it absolutely clear by positioning myself as close to your head as possible and purring like a train.” 

“Foods.” Anything Scooter Thomas eats, but almost exclusive IAMS Indoor Weight & Hairball Care dry food. E.g., “Why is this the third time he’s climbed Mount Mew this morning and it’s only five thirty? I bet he’s out of foods.” Note: “Foods,” while plural, applies to anything ST ingests, even if it were a single steak, Eggs Benedict, pie or beef jerky.

“A Good Spot.”  The final resting place after countless minutes of kneading, rotating and scouting any surface on which to recline. Usually occurs on a couch or bed but occasionally takes place on a carpet, coffee table, the kitchen floor or Trader Joe’s Double Wide Cat Scratcher. 

“Green Mouse.”  Scooter Thomas’s favorite toy, aside from his Kitty Hooch mouse. He likes to spend time with Green Mouse by sitting on it. This is referred to as “getting Green Mouse.” ST’s other expression of love toward Green Mouse is to stomp on it repeatedly with one of his back paws before rolling over and biting Green Mouse’s head.

“Kitten Loaf.”  A polite expression alluding to ST’s girth. E.g., upon spotting Scooter Thomas sprawled out on the bed, “Oh my. It appears we have some Kitten Loaf fresh out of the oven.” This is a slight variation on “Turkey Mew” (below) — both amplify the resemblance of ST’s torso to any dense, substantive food product.

“Licks.”  ST’s gesture of apology for not “being sweet.” After latching on to our forearm, for example, we ask if he will give us some licks. He almost always complies, unless he exhales a short, quick burst of air and then bolts away, presumably to plot the eight locations at which he will soon vomit.

“Mr. Mew” (pronounced “Mee-yoo”), “Mr. Bew” ( “Bee-yo0″), “Mr. Shmew,” “Mewey Mew,” “Mew Buttons,” “McMewber” (rhymes with “McGruber”), “Sweet Boy,” “Sweet Mew” (or “Sweet-lovin’ Mew”), and “Kittens.”  All nicknames. We rarely address Scooter Thomas by his proper name. “Kittens,” while plural, refers to the singular ST. We also — but only in the sweetest, most cooing voice possible — sometimes call him “Assface” to amuse ourselves. 

“Mr. Owl.”  Scooter Thomas’s nickname when he flattens his ears and looks perturbed. A fun game we play involves commentating on ST’s animal classification when he repeatedly flattens and unflattens his ears in a short period of time. This game is informally referred to as “Owl, Kitten, Owl,” and can go on for as long as five minutes.

“So bad.”  The most common descriptor for Scooter Thomas’s behavior at any given moment. E.g., “I’ll be home tonight at 7. What are you and The Mew up to until then?” “Well, Kittens is being so bad.” “What else is new?” The “so” is important as it differentiates basic misconduct from full-blown malfeasance. It is usually pronounced “so” rather than merely “so.”

“Turkey Mew.”  The resting position in which Scooter Thomas resembles — in position and girth — a Butterball turkey. This position is on his stomach with the front paws tucked underneath his chest and his shoulder blades and rear haunches resembling, respectively, wings and legs. (See here for an approximation of what this looks like. It will help if you visually substitute a cat’s head.)

Law & Order: Voreblog Edition

You may recall that our house was broken into last March. You may also recall that last September we thought our ordeal was over once we finally retrieved our iPod, digital camera and Macbook. Although we got our things back, the case remained open while the defendant, Mr. B—–, filed appeal after appeal and, for good measure, fired his public defender. Ben went back to court again the week of Thanksgiving but the docket was so full that the hearing was postponed once more. It was rescheduled for December, then rescheduled again for this week. 

Today, nearly a year after the break-in, Mr. B—– defied the conventional wisdom which said, given his priors and the evidence against him in another break-in, he should plead guilty in exchange for four years jail time. Instead, Mr. B—– fired his public defender (again) and threatened to take it to trial, which would require that one of the Vores be present all day tomorrow and possibly into Friday. For his intransigence, the Deer Park police department thinks Mr. B—– could now serve up to sixteen years. But you probably wouldn’t expect common sense from someone who picked the snowiest day of 2008 (schools were closed) to kick in our front door in the middle of the day on a fairly busy street.

Ben relayed this to his colleague Mark Hoobler this afternoon, given the possibility he might have to miss work. It’s not really good for either of us, Ben said, since Erin’s in the middle of a crazy week too.

To which Mark replied, “There’s always one other member of the Vore household who could be present.”

Which got us thinking…

 

[SCENE: Hamilton County Court of Common Pleas. JUDGE DANIEL PHELAN presides over a subdued courtroom. Some family and friends are in attendance, scattered about the room. The defendant, MR. B-----, is led into the room in handcuffs. The bailiff escorting him in looks eerily like Nostradamus "Bull" Shannon from "Night Court."]

[JUDGE PHELAN pounds his gavel. Everyone snaps to.]

JUDGE PHELAN: I am so sick and tired of this case being dragged out forever. I mean, when will justice be served? Let’s wrap this thing up today because, frankly, I don’t like your face, Mr. B—–.

MR. B—–: Whether you like my face or not, your honor, I am innocent until proven guilty.

JUDGE PHELAN: Baloney. Let’s call the first witness.

[The prosecutor, BOB LOBLAW, rises from his desk.]

BOB LOBLAW: Your honor. I would like to call two witnesses. These poor individuals have already endured so much and can testify to the crime that Mr. B—– has committed against them. I would like to call Ben and Erin Vore to the stand.

[Everyone in the courtroom turns to watch the VORES walk in. The door remains closed. A murmur ripples through the courtroom.]

BOB LOBLAW [somewhat louder]: I said, “I would now like to call Ben and Erin Vore to the stand.”

[The door does not open. The courtroom is abuzz. Hushed whispers of "Maybe they're not coming!" and "Mr. B----- could get off scot-free!"]

BOB LOBLAW: Poop. I really am a terrible lawyer.

MR. B—–: Your honor, it appears as though there are no victims in this so-called crime. I think I should walk.

JUDGE PHELAN: Zip it. Mr. Loblaw, have you no witnesses to testify?

[BOB LOBLAW looks flustered until a man suddenly bursts through the doors. The courtroom releases a collective gasp. The man races down the aisle. He leans toward BOB LOBLAW and whispers something in his ear. BOB LOBLAW's face lights up.]

BOB LOBLAW: Ahem. Your honor, we do have a witness here. But I’ve been informed he’ll need a little help getting to the stand.

JUDGE PHELAN: Exactly what kind of help are we talking about here, Mr. Loblaw?

BOB LOBLAW: Either a small crane or the strength of four men. Whatever’s more convenient.

JUDGE PHELAN: Seeing as there doesn’t appear to be a crane in this courtroom, Mr. Loblaw, let’s go with the four men. Bailiff?

BAILIFF WHO LOOKS LIKE BULL: I’ve been told I have the strength of four men, sir.

[BOB LOBLAW looks skeptical but just shrugs. BAILIFF WHO LOOKS LIKE BULL exits the courtroom. Expectant silence. MR. B----- appears unsettled, looking from face to face. JUDGE PHELAN looks nonplussed. A menacing, minor-key synthesizer note rises in pitch.]

[Doors open with a flourish as BAILIFF WHO LOOKS LIKE BULL reenters the courtroom holding something gigantically furry in his hands. He is clearly laboring as he walks down the aisle.]

ANONYMOUS SPECTATOR #1: Dear Lord, what is he carrying?

ANONYMOUS SPECTATOR #2: It appears to be alive!

ANONYMOUS SPECTATOR #1: What an abominable creature! I can’t believe how, how … HUGE it is.

ANONYMOUS SPECTATOR #2: It’s the famed Leviathan from the Book of Job!

[BAILIFF WHO LOOKS LIKE BULL places large furry creature on the witness stand before collapsing to floor. He is struggling to breathe and could be dying.]

JUDGE PHELAN: Back-up bailiff! Help this man! And Mr. Loblaw — what in God’s name is that thing on the witness stand?

BOB LOBLAW: Your honor — I call to the witness stand … Mister Scooter Thomas.

[Gasps and frantic whispering. MR. B-----'s eyes grow very large. JUDGE PHELAN pounds his gavel, shouting "Order! ORDER!" SCOOTER THOMAS flattens his ears as the hair on his plentiful backside stands on end.]

JUDGE PHELAN: Mr. Loblaw, what is the meaning of this?

BOB LOBLAW: Your honor, neither of the Vores could be here today. However, their cat, Scooter Thomas, can testify to the hideousness of this crime, seeing as he was the only one at home when it occurred.

MR. B——: Your honor, it’s a cat! 

JUDGE PHELAN: Mr. Loblaw, you’d better not be yanking my chain. I’m going to allow this, but I warn you — you’re on very thin ice here.

BOB LOBLAW: Thank you, your honor. I won’t abuse your trust. [turning to Scooter Thomas] Now, Mr. Thomas — can I call you Mr. Thomas?

SCOOTER THOMAS: You can call me Scooter Thomas, seeing as that’s my name.

[More gasps. "It talks!" more than one spectator proclaims from the audience. "And it appears to have a British accent!"]

BOB LOBLAW: Yes, forgive me. Mr. Scooter Thomas, can you tell us what transpired at the Vore household  on March –, 2008?

SCOOTER THOMAS: Well, it’s a bit hazy. First the doorbell went off, which always scares the bejeezus out of me. I made a run for the landing on the second floor so I could keep an eye on things. That’s when some brute began kicking in the front door. At that point I hightailed it outta there and took cover underneath the bed. I’m not proud of it. I’ll come right out and say it: I wussed out big time.

BOB LOBLAW: No need for the self-flagellation, Mr. Tho– er, Mr. Scooter Thomas. Please continue.

SCOOTER THOMAS: Well, I stayed under the bed and didn’t come out, even when the bedroom was ransacked and there were drawers and clothes all over the place. I thought about rounding up some of my favorite toys, but I wasn’t going to risk my life like that. So I stayed put.

BOB LOBLAW: Did you, Mr. Scooter Thomas, get a look at the person who broke into your owner’s home?

SCOOTER THOMAS: Yes.

BOB LOBLAW: Is that person in the courtroom today?

SCOOTER THOMAS: Yes.

BOB LOBLAW [pausing for dramatic effect]: Could you please point to said individual, Mr. Scooter Thomas.

[Complete and utter stillness. The air is charged with expectation. SCOOTER THOMAS begins to lift his right paw. The spectators lean forward in their seats. His paw is almost fully extended when, abruptly, he begins licking it and trying to work something out from between his foot pads.]

JUDGE PHELAN: MIS-ter Loblaw –

BOB LOBLAW: Your honor, I’m so sorry –

MR. B—–: Your honor, this is preposterous!

JUDGE PHELAN: Mr. Loblaw! Control your witness or I’ll have you held in contempt of court!

BOB LOBLAW: Yes, sir, your honor, I’m sorry. Please, allow me a moment–

[BOB LOBLAW approaches the witness stand. He whispers in SCOOTER THOMAS'S ear. SCOOTER THOMAS nods, then unleashes a monster yawn and licks his lips. BOB LOBLAW looks at him skeptically until SCOOTER THOMAS nods again. BOB LOBLAW returns to his desk.]

BOB LOBLAW: All right, sorry. Let’s try that again. Mr. Scooter Thomas, would you please focus and point to the individual who broke into your house?

[Silence and anticipation yet again. More leaning forward. A trickle of sweat falls along Mr. B-----'s brow. SCOOTER THOMAS raises his paw, slowly, slowly, until...]

SCOOTER THOMAS: That man. [He points to MR. B-----.] He’s the one who broke into our house.

[A woman screams. Camera flashes go off. MR. B----- shouts, "Noooo!" JUDGE PHELAN whacks his gavel no less than sixteen times, bellowing, "Order! ORDER IN THE COURT!" SCOOTER THOMAS again flattens his ears and crouches down fearfully.]

JUDGE PHELAN: Mr. B—–, justice has been served! I sentence you to sixteen years for being such a dillweed throughout this whole process, not to mention making a mockery of my courtroom. Bailiff who looks like Bull, take him away!

[BAILIFF WHO LOOKS LIKE BULL is still prostrate on the floor.]

JUDGE PHELAN: Great, is the bailiff dead?

BOB LOBLAW: No, sir. But he appears incapacitated. 

JUDGE PHELAN: And why is that?

BOB LOBLAW: Scooter Thomas is sitting on his chest.

BAILIFF WHO LOOKS LIKE BULL [groaning]: I can barely breathe! Get this monster off me!

JUDGE PHELAN: Court adjourned!

 

UPDATE: The trial has been postponed until late March. No word on whether Court TV will be covering it live.

Scooter Thomas Goes Snuggie

Several of our readers commented that Snuggies Inc. is missing out on the feline demographic by failing to produce a cat-sized Snuggie. Could it be that one size really does fit all, human and feline? We decided to put it to the test.

Scooter Thomas in a Snuggie, take one.

 

Even with a cat of Scooter Thomas’s girth, the answer seemed pretty clear that one size does not fit all. Nonetheless, this has not stopped Mr. Scooter T from wearing a Snuggie about the house.

Scooter Thomas attempting (admirably) to fill out a human-size Snuggie.

 

Now that Scooter Thomas has officially come out on this blog by allowing himself to be photographed, he is demanding that every post feature a photo of him. The megalomania of that cat knows no bounds.

——————–

Local forecasters are throwing around words like “significant ice event” and “walloped by snow” as a winter storm system sweeps through the greater Cincinnati area. You know what that means!

Scooter Thomas Writes For eHow

We poked a little fun at some of the advice being offered on eHow.com earlier this week, but little did we know that someone in the Vore household has already been publishing his work there. He’s got some advice to offer here, here and here. He has also apparently devised a strategy for finally conquering that fiendish red pen light here. No word yet on how exactly he’s being compensated for this (apparently eHow pays by the number of hits), but we guess he’s saving up for a new Kitty Hooch toy or something.

UPDATE: In his first 20 hours as an eHow member, Scooter Thomas has somehow managed to accumulate 41 friends. We’re not sure how many of them know he is a cat.

Scooter Thomas Reviews Dewey

Our cat and occasional guest blogger Scooter Thomas asked for the opportunity to review the new book Dewey, which has appeared on numerous bestseller lists and currently sits at #10 on Amazon’s Top 100.

 

Ahem. Thank you, owners.

What names come to mind when one thinks of the true modern day saints? Mother Teresa and Mahatma Gandhi, certainly. Pope John Paul and Martin Luther King Jr., for sure. It would not be too great a stretch to add others like Bono or, say, Don Rickles to that list. Yet there is one name that has sadly lacked the recognition it deserves. That is, until now.

That name is Dewey Readmore Books.

For those of you who are not cats and/or live in a cave, Dewey is the subject of the bestseller Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World. His story begins tragically. On one of the coldest nights of the year, some cruel, unconscionable monster stuffed Dewey — just weeks old — into the returned book slot of the Spencer Public Library in Spencer, Iowa. The next day librarian Vicky Myron, blessed be her name, found Dewey and adopted him as the library cat. In those early days Dewey’s paws were so frostbitten that he could only hobble on them (and here I’m quoting directly from the dust jacket) “to nudge each of [the staff] in a gesture of thanks and love.” 

Pardon me a moment. [dabs at eyes] I’m sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t cry.

There. Okay. For the next nineteen years, Dewey became the plucky mascot of Spencer, teaching the town folk lessons about courage, generosity and the power of relationships, as well as the resilience and humanity of good people like those in our nation’s heartland. Dewey is a true feline Hall of Famer, and he will rekindle your belief that one person (together with one cat) can change lives. 

In the interests of full disclosure, I should add that Dewey and I were acquaintances, and that we served on the boards of numerous non-profits together. We also volunteered at the same soup kitchen, did mission work deworming orphans in Somalia, and won the Nobel Peace Prize along with Muhammad Yunus for our groundbreaking work on micro-loans. We go way back, Dewey and I. Oh the stories I could tell…

Well, I’ll tell one. Not to shed our great hero in an unflattering light, but many nights after closing time at Spencer Public Library, Dewey just wanted to kick back and shotgun some beers in the Astronomy section (520-529). Lest one mistake this location for some intention on Dewey’s part to actively educate himself about the heavens, however, he chose this spot mainly so he could deface the night sky books by drawing lines from star to star in order to shape crude renderings of male genitalia. I made the mistake of criticizing this endeavor one evening when Dewey was quite sauced, and he responded by smashing off the top of his beer bottle and holding the shattered handle to my neck. I still recall the fetid stench of his breath as he spun me a sad tale of woe, relating how he became an orphan and what he would do to his first owner should they ever meet in a dark alley. Then he passed out in my lap, at which point an overpowering smell filled my nostrils and I was visited with the realization that Dewey had in fact lost control of his bowels. (This happened nearly every time he drank.)

I never visited Dewey after closing hours again.

I want to reiterate that Dewey truly was a saint, a cat whom I hold in only the highest regard. Except for the time we went cruising in Spencer and he thought it would be a good idea to smash some mailboxes with a baseball bat. We were hanging with our friends Gus and Maggie, and since they were a little high I felt compelled to speak up again and question whether this activity was truly an edifying one for the greater good of our close-knit community. This small objection was met with such an onslaught of blistering profanity from Dewey himself that sailors everywhere covered their ears in shame. He veered off the road, caromed into a cornfield, accelerated toward a defenseless deer stunned by our headlights and swerved only at the last moment, careening recklessly about in a whirlwind fury of corn and mud until we slammed into a tree and Gus went straight through the windshield. (Not to fear. He landed on all four feet.) I thought our ordeal was over, but Dewey promptly exited the car and capped the deer with a sawed-off shotgun before arching his head back and howling to the dark sky above. “I am Children of the Corn!” he yelled inscrutably, a reference to the movie he subjected me to no less than three dozen times. Still a shudder goes down my spine when I think of that night.

Again, I don’t mean to detract from the great cat that he was. It’s just that he could wig out at times is all. 

There was a falling out after that, and I skipped town with the one life I had left. The other eight were strewn about Spencer, in cornfields and seedy nightclubs and open stretches of highway where Dewey would drag race, me cowering in the backseat. We never kept in touch after that, though when I read his obituary I felt a pang of loss, quickly replaced by the enormous relief that I got out while I still could.

So, to sum up, there’s quite a lot of Dewey’s story that the authors fail to include in their bestselling tome, omissions I ascribe solely to considerations of length and in no way regard as a distortion of the great feline that Mr. Books was. You could do much, much worse than putting Dewey under the Christmas tree this year for your loved ones. You could do better too, but I have yet to finish my memoirs.