Kitty pictures tell a story, don’t they

I have a couple of pictures of Tig3 for you.

This first one will probably get more attention in another month or so, when the new Hulk movie comes out. I couldn’t resist seeing if Tig would play with the Hulk toy that’s been on my camera since, oh, the year the first Hulk movie came out. He did.

Next, Tig’s favorite toy: Me.

I discovered, via pictures of Tig, that his ears are in horrendous shape. Filthy. I thought he wasn’t washing them, but Sarah told me he’s showing classic signs of being allergic to his food. He’s due for a vet’s appointment tomorrow, so I’ll double-check with them and then dump the Science Diet and buy something else. I’m leaning towards Nutro. Sarah says go for something that’s low on the corn and wheat gluten. She says it also explains Tig’s (sigh) flatulence. I have never had a cat that farts. I have to tell you, it’s extremely unpleasant, particularly because after he eats, his favorite thing in the whole world is to snuggle with me. The closer to my face, the better. And then, well, he farts. Sitting in my lap. Or on my shoulder. Or in my arms. Yep. Kitty flatulence. Something that I never really knew existed, until Tig3.0. Here’s hoping Sarah is right, and a change in diet changes the nuisance.

Tig also has strange litterbox habits. He feels the need to announce to the world that he is about to use the litterbox. He runs inside and yowls. He did this from the first day I had him, and I called the vet, worried there was something wrong with him. “Sounds like you have yourself a talker,” the vet’s assistant said, and told me not to mind. She kindly did not laugh at me (at least until she put the phone down). I’m very much looking forward to bringing Tig to the vet’s tomorrow. They had to put up with a sad, sad time with Tig the Second and his renal failure. It’s going to be nice for all of us to have Tig3 in for a checkup and shots. Well, except for him. I expect he’s not going to like the car ride any better than the one when I took him home. (That picture of him biting the carrier cracks me up every time I look at it.)

And last, we have Miss Gracie, looking mighty smug.

That’s because Tig is still confined to my office. I won’t be letting him out until I’m no longer allergic to him. I realized a day or two ago that if he sleeps in my bed, I’m going to wake up in bad shape. And of course, he will want to sleep in my bed. Gracie has all but abandoned the second floor of my townhouse. I wonder what she’s going to do when Tig comes downstairs.

This morning, she deigned to come into my room and leap onto the bed. So I got Tig and stood in the doorway holding him. Gracie stared at Tig. Tig stared at Gracie. No sound was made. Then, suddenly, low, unmistakeable, and getting louder: Gracie growled at Tig. We went into the office and she beat it downstairs.

Her loss. Tig would be a ton of fun for her if she would just get over that stupid territorial imperative. Damned biology. Damned instinct.

Well, there will doubtless be stories to tell when Tig finally is given the run of the house. But until then, Gracie is the reigning princess.