Expect radio silence for the next couple of days: tomorrow is the start of Texas Frightmare Weekend, with Friday festivities running from 5 to 11 p.m. If you’re going to be out that way, look for the Triffid Ranch in the back of the Made In Texas Hall: I have a few surprises for longtime attendees. For those who are thinking about it, let me give you James Wallace’s summation over at the Dallas Observer. (I have to admit that I was in shock over such a positive review. It seemed like just yesterday when one particular writer over there would throw tantrums over how he’d refuse to write about any local convention unless he was given exclusive access to the guests, and then write a nasty review because he got everything he wanted. My, how things change.)
Anyway, in the meantime, it’s back to potting up Sarracenia and putting nametags on Bhut Jolokia peppers, and then sleep. And that’s where the saga of Tramplemaine comes in.
I’ve talked previously about my cat Leiber, aka “the FreakBeast,” and now it’s time to bring up Tramplemaine. Tramplemaine is a part-Siamese tuxedo cat that the Czarina rescued in the late Nineties, and he’s by far one of the most interesting cats I’ve ever met. Every cat owner will tell you that his/her cat is unique, but that really does fit Tramplemaine. This cat understands far more English than he cares to let on: at a party years back, a friend picked him up and exclaimed how heavy he was for such a small cat, and her husband quipped “Well, black is very slimming.” That cat was Tom’s best friend for the rest of the evening. We’re talking Gummitch levels of intelligence here.
Because of this, I feel free to speak to Tramplemaine as if he were any other human member of the family, and I respect his opinion much more than that of most biological relations. That is, outside of the bedroom. Just as I’m trying to call it quits for the night, he races to the bed, jumps on my side, and promptly flops down and claims the whole space. The Czarina thinks this is incredibly funny, and keeps telling me that there’s nothing wrong with moving the cat. I know better. Tramplemaine can be vindictive if forced off the bed, and I spent nearly five years at our previous residence with him tripping me on the stairs in the dark. Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
This time, though, I finally decided to let him know who is in charge. After he’d conducted his nightly flop-and-roll, I just looked at him and told him “You know, animals sleep on the floor.”
His only response: “Mang.”
I was insistent. “Animals sleep on the floor.
His only response: “Mang.” I knew the tone: “No shit, Sherlock.”
That’s when we had it out, and I have only one thing to say. I’m glad that our bedroom floor has carpeting, because it’s COLD down here.
