Our cat/Is a very very very fine cat/With two c...uh oh.

This is me and my kittycat Gus. Say hi to the nice blog-reading people, Gus!



Today is Gus's birthday, so please join me in wishing her a Happy Birthday! Today she is nineteen years old. Which is a very good age to be. That's also quite elderly for a cat! In human years she is...let's see...carry the seven...one thousand and thirty-three years old. Which is almost as old as Vandal Savage. I very much like taking care of Gus and opening her canned food and brushing her and feeding her snacks. I am not as keen on cleaning her litter box, but hey! You have to take care of your kittycat. I scoop the poop and put it in bags. When I run out of bags I sometimes grab a Mylar comics bag to scoop her poop into. But I wonder...am I supposed to put a backing board in there, too?

To celebrate her birthday, here's one of Gus's favorite cool cats, Mister Carl Perkins, giving us the musical sartorial suggestion to "Put Your Cat Clothes On." I'll go get into my cat outfit immediately! Take it away, C.P.!:



So, in short: Happy Birthday, Gus!

A Wodehouse a Week Special: "Goodbye to All Cats"

Oh, hullo there. I'm Gus the Qat, Bully's kittycat friend. He's asked me to help out with this "A Wodehouse a Week" thing. I imagine it will be intellectually stimulating, if not necessarily tuna-flavored. So, let's get right into it, shall we? Right. Let's.



The Wodehouse story contained in Young Men in Spats that Bully didn't tell you about last time is entitled "Goodbye to All Cats." Huh. I'm not certain if I approve of that title. Yes, I'm a very well-read feline and I recognize it is a pun on the title of Robert Graves's autography. I'm not entirely certain Laura (Riding) Jackson would have approved, but as Robert Graves was a long-time friend of Spike Milligan, he probably would have enjoyed the works of Wodehouse as well. Then again, Graves is the human who wrote:

Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."

Perhaps Robert Graves was more of a dog person. Which is his loss. But that's neither here nor there.

"Goodbye to All Cats" is the tale of young Freddie Widgeon of the Drones Club and his love for the animal-loving Dahlia Prenderby. Well, she sounds a bit of all right, doesn't she? With an eye to marching down the matrimonial aisle, Freddie is out to impress Dahlia's family, but he's not making friends of them...or of the RSPCA:

'Permit me,' said Freddie, suave to the eyebrows.

And, bounding forward with the feeling that this was the stuff to give them, he barged right into a cat.

'Oh, sorry,' he said, backing and bringing down his heel on another cat.

'I say, most frightfully sorry,' he said.

And tottering to a chair, he sank heavily onto a third cat.

Well, he was up and about in a jiffy, of course, but it was too late. There was the usual not-at-all-ing and don't-mention-it-ing, but he could read between the lines. Lady Prenderby's eyes had rested on his for only a brief instant, but it had been enough. His standing with her, he perceived, was now approximately what King Herod's would have been at an Israelite Mothers' Social Saturday Afternoon.

And rightfully so, I do think.

Bully passed me a copy of "Goodbye to All Cats" that he purchased in the United Kingdom, and a most unusual little item it is. It's not quite a book: it's one in a series of "Travelman Short Story Editions" which are printed and folded like a map, making them handy short reads for your commute on the London Underground or British rail, and indeed these were created to be mostly sold at W. H. Smith's and other newsagents in train stations. There were a large series of these which republished short stories and essays by famous authors from Saki to Ruth Rendell, Arthur Conan Doyle to C. S. Forester. Retailing for a mere pound a pop, they're cleverly and attractively designed—you don't even have to open them all the way at once, since the folds are planned so that you only need open a small portion at a time before flipping to the next section. It's a bit difficult with paws (after all, cat thumbs are designed mainly for flicking rubber bands), but clever, clever humans! First the canned tuna invention, and now this. I begin to see why we cats keep you humans about.



Still, aside from the "build a better mousetrap" sheer engineering skill of the Travelman concept, I can find little to recommend "Goodbye to All Cats" from a purr-ly feline purr-spective, being filled with much animal abuse for comedic effect as anything short of a Monty Python "Confuse-A-Cat" so-called "comedy sketch." Witness this scene following Freddie's horrified discovery of a Pekinese and a cat fighting in his bedroom, and his inability to explain the situation to his hosts:

Well, you can't say this was pleasant for poor old Freddie, and he didn't think so himself. He opened the door to perceive, without, a group consisting of Lady Prenderby, her daughter Dahlia, a few assorted aunts, and the butler, with poker. And he says he met Dahlia's eyes and they went through him like a knife.

'Let me explain..." he began.

'Spare us the details,' said Lady Prenderby with a shiver. She scooped up the Peke and felt it for broken bones.

'But listen..."

'Good night, Mr Widgeon.'

The aunts said good night, too, and so did the butler. The girl Dahlia preserved a revolted silence.

'But honestly, it was nothing, really. It banged its head against the bed...'

'What did he say?' asked one of the aunts, who was a little hard of hearing.

'He said he banged the poor creature's head against the bed.' said Lady Prenderby.

'Dreadful!' said the aunt.

'Hideous!' said a second aunt.

Quite.



Well, that's all well and good, and perhaps there's more than meets the eye in Freddie Widgeon. Perhaps we should not be too quick to judge the young man harshly. Perhaps he means well. Shall we read further?

The spectacle he presented was so unpleasant that Freddie withdrew into his room and shut the door. His bosom, as you may imagine, was surging with distressing emotions. That look which Dahlia Prenderby had given him had churned him up to no little extent. He realized he had a lot of tense thinking to do, and to assist thought he sat down on the bed.

Or, rather, to be accurate, on the dead cat which was lying on the bed.

To be fair to the hapless human Widgeon, 'twas not he who was responsible for the demise of my fictional brother, but the over-excited dog who had worried it to roughly. Still. This supposedly cheerful little romance Bully has given me has turned into a rather gruesome and grotesque murder drama, and we can only hope that the poor departed soul's mortal remains be treated with the respect and reverence that he deserves.

And then the thought came to him that it might be possible not to be discovered with it on his person. He had only to nip downstairs and deposit the remains in the drawing-room or somewhere and suspicion might not fall upon him. After all, in a super-catted house like this, cats must be dying like flies all over the place.

...He suddenly thought of the window. There lay the solution. Here he had been, fooling about with doors and thinking in terms of drawing rooms, and all the while there was the balcony staring him in the face. All he had to do was to shoot the body out into the silent night, and let gardeners, not housemaids, discover it.

He hurried out. It was a moment for swift action. He raised his burden. He swung it to and fro, working up steam. Then he let it go, and from the dark garden there came suddenly the cry of a strong man in his anger.

'Who threw that cat?'

It was the voice of his host, Sir Mortimer Prenderby.

'Show me the man who threw that cat!' he thundered.

Windows flew up. Heads came out. Freddie sank to the floor of the balcony and rolled against the wall.

'Whatever is the matter, Mortimer?'

'Let me get at the man who hit me in the eye with a cat.'

That's it! That is right out. I am out of here, and I shan't review any more. Please to take your foldable catty-snuff story away, Bully. And whatever you do, do not click on the Amazon link to purchase this story by Mister Pelham Grenville "Fiend to All Cats" Wodehouse. Hmmmph.

A Wodehouse a Week Index.

Today in Comics History, January 31: Goin' Bananas on National Gorilla Suit Day

Hi hi hi everyone! It's me, Bully! No, it really it is me: I'm in my gorilla suit! That's because it's the most wonderful day of the year: National Gorilla Suit Day! I certainly hope you are wearing your gorilla suit today too. I could hardly sleep last night: I laid out my suit before I went to bed and I kept getting up to look at it all through the night! (But you're not allowed to put it on until morning). And you do have to go to sleep! While you are sleeping, The Great Ape swings in through your window, helps himself to the coconuts you have left out, goes through your fridge and makes himself a banana daquiri, and then blesses your gorilla suit with a loving "ook ook" before he swings on down the street! So you can only imagine my thrills when I woke up and found banana peels on the kitchen floor and the blender had been used! Hooray! I climbed right into my suit—I only need a little help zipping it up the back—and set about having an fun-filled day of the most exciting National Gorilla Suit Day activities:


First, I sat and read the full history of National Gorilla Suit Day. Remember that National Gorilla Suit Day is not just about the bananas and the ooking...it's a day to honor MAD's maddest artist, Don Martin! We in ape costumes salute you, Don!


from MAD #480 (August 2007)
A little traditional NGSD snack is always appropriate. Also, yummy!


Hooray! Cartoons! This one's fun any day but especially significant today!


A classic movie is appropriate viewing today too. Make sure you cheer for the right character! Knock those planes down, King!


Speaking of gorillas: those of you who were following my London blog know that I was obsessed with getting those wonderful vinyl figures of the band Gorillaz. I didn't buy them over in the UK but much to my surprise they were available over here, so they were my special National Gorilla Suit Day present! Hooray! Set 'em out, put on your G-Sides CD, and it's just like being in a Jamie Hewlett cartoon! Except Tank Girl is nowhere to be found. Darn.


My gorilla suit was getting a bit hot and whiffy, so in the evening I took it off to play with my new action figures. I know that shocks some of you. "Keep them in the box, Bully!" you scold. "If you take them out and play with them you'll ruin their resale value! How will you even sell them in eBay later?" To which I say to you: "Pfui!" Toys were made to be played with. If you don't take 'em out of the box and set 'em up and move 'em around and make them clash in Infinite Crises of Ultimate Secret Wars, what good are they? If you keep your toys in the cases and never take them out, you may as well just lock them away in a steel vault. I bet you seal your comics in those cheesy CGC plastic cases without even readin' 'em! People like that have no idea how to have fun.


F'r instance, why not join your favorite cartoon band in an impromptu jam session? Here I am plunking along with Gorillaz. Miss Noodle said I was a very good banjo plucker. Mister Murdoc said I was some other kind of plucker, I think.


Now it is time for a megaconcert for the City of London! Everybody sing along! "Don't get lost in heaven/They got locks on the gate."


Suddenly, giant mutant Kitten Kong (my kittycat Gus!) crashes the concert!


Londoners flee in terror as the giant kitten stampedes through the panicked city, knocking over the Post Office Tower and toppling the Gherkin! (Well, every cloud has a silver lining, I guess.)


Music may have charms to sooth a feline beast, but even the awesome power of Gorillaz rock can not stop her rampage!


Who can stop the terrifying giant kitten? Who can stop the terrible rampage? Who? Who? Teeny-tiny Harriet Jones, Prime Minister, puts out the call for help!


Vworp...vworp...vworp... Hooray! The Doctor and Rose arrive to save the city and drive off the giant mutant kitten! Hoorah!


Using the awesome power of timey-wimey stuff, The Doctor puts London back almost as good as new!


"I'm not the tin dog!" protests 2D.


Now it is time for a fabulous jam concert to celebrate. Everybody sing!


But Kitten Kong plots her revenge! The End...?


So, as you can see, it was quite the best National Gorilla Suit Day of them all. Hope you had a action-and-fun-packed one as well!

Thank you very much, thank you very much! / That's the nicest thing that anyone's ever done for me

It's not even Christmas yet, but plop in the Bully mailbox landed two intriguing padded packages addressed to yours truly. What could they be? What could they be?

Wow! Two of my good internetty friends, Pal Dorian Wright and Jovial Jadzia Axelrod sent me some wonderful surprise-type presents! Why, is it my birthday? No! I just have really good friends!


Dorian must have known how sad I am that I am not going to London again this Christmas (sniff) so he sent me the next best thing: a wonderful colorful map of London!


It's big enough that I can play on it and pretend I'm in London. Hey look, everybody, I'm sitting on Graham Norton! Hah!


There are fun-type activities that will keep me amused for hours. I have to scour London to find Nelson's Column, a London bus, and a public loo. Wow. That last one is hard.


There were also fun London stickers in the map! You've gotta love free bonus stickers. They're like the sour cream on the Chipotle Burrito of life.


John said I could not put the stickers on the walls or the furniture. He did not say anything about not putting them on the cat! Tee hee! Stand still, Gus...you are in London now!


Dorian also sent me a "Beauty Walks in Atlantic City" map. I think I am not pretty enough to use this map personally, but it will come in very handy the next time I play Monopoly. A hotel for Marvin Gardens, please!


When I opened Jadzia's's package, I was surprised and happy to find she had sent me a beautiful home-made Doctor Who sonic screwdriver! This is tons better than the manual screwdriver I have to use all the time! Everyone will be jealous of me in shop class.


It looks just like the real (Sylvester) McCoy! And the end actually really lights up! I can shoot sonic rays and unlock doors and get into the cookies wherever John has hidden them away.


It is especially good for fighting off Daleks. If they don't respond to the sonic attack, just hit them over the head with it.



Thank you, Dorian and Jadzia!