Posts Tagged ‘RIP’
Tuesday, March 25th, 2014
Location: Kaloomps, BC Canada
You can call me ugly...you can call me mean...you can call me slouchy...just don't call me fat! Or else.
What makes Gabba so mean?
Gabba wasn’t really a “mean kitty”, but she didn’t have either any trouble or hesitations of voicing her discomfort(s)/dislike(s) of people, places or things. From what I have heard calicos are just a wee bit tempermental. Her life before me granted her that right. Her former owner was a druggie and mistreated her in several ways Meankitty is opting not to share with delicate, underage viewers whose parents might get ticked off if we printed stuff like that. (!!) (And doesn’t that sound more ominous and dire than the real thing? Seriously. It’s all about the power of the imagination.) That sort of life style for people is hard enough, but to bring a cat(s) into must be equally as hard on the animal.
Once we crossed paths, I became her human. She had no trouble now being a fat and lazy cat. Most people called her “fat cat” when they first would see her, but I would put an end to it right there. Thought it was funny that people can say such things about an animal without giving it a second thought, but heaven forbid if I were to walk up to someone say, “You’re fat.” That would be considered very offensive. She seem to take all in stride, or just didn’t care.
She loved sitting on the couch, thus erned the the nickname “couch slouch” (darn good song by D.R.I.). Speaking of punk music she seemed to care little, or dare I say might even of liked some of the noise that blasted from my record player; just maybe she learned to put up with it. Her favorite toy was string on a stick, which taught me about the simple things in life. (Meankitty’s note: so would the 3 chords in a lot of punk rock *wink*) Feed her three times a day, play with her a bit, let her have her place on the couch and a snuggle before lights out, or while I read in bed, and she was extremly content with life.
When I did find her, she was already an old cat with some health issues. They slowly got worse, even more of them. After five great years of having her in my life, I lost her. Given her hard life, that was the “classy” way to let go.
The guy with charged hair and sun glasses in her picture is whom she is named after: Gabba from Chaos UK.
Submitted by: Chuckie Hardcore
RIP Mean Gabba!
Sunday, April 28th, 2013
Location: Oak Park, IL
Better not let THIS cat outta the bag! I’ll go psycho mode on your butt!
What makes Trotsky so mean?
Trotsky deceived us from the beginning when we picked him up at the Anti-Cruelty Society. He was both skinny and lovable and we thought he’d be the perfect companion to our 9 month old kitten at home. Unfortunately he was anything but. I’ll never forget the look our other cat Faust gave me when we opened the cat carrier and Trotsky stepped out. Faust sat at the back of the long hallway and looked directly in my eye as if to say: “How could you.”
Trotsky began his stay with us calmly enough, spending the first few days in a bathroom cupboard, but after a while he settled in and took over. We lived on the top floor of a three-flat in Chicago with my brother and his wife whom Trotsky developed a special hatred for. He would sit on the second floor landing and wait for her to come home, refusing to move as she and her 90 pound Golden Retriever would come up the stairs. Trotsky would rear up and snort if they tried to get too close, and she would have to scream for me to get him, which I would do, holding him gingerly at arm’s length while he hissed and flailed away.
When we bought our own house Trotsky would take special glee in terrorizing neighborhood cats. He would lie on our front porch in the early evening and just wait. If a cat was foolish enough to investigate our house, Trotsky would start a low guttural howl to warn the foolish intruder after it passed some imaginary line in our yard. If the errant cat continued to approach then Trotsky would begin to lather himself into psycho mode. If this first-time visitor (there were no second-time feline guests) continued his advance, Trotsky would lunge and the two would transform into a screaming, hissing ball that would roll and bounce across the front yard. The noise would bring me running with a broom that I kept near the front door for just such occasions which I would use to pry the two apart. I’d have to shove Trotsky back to our house with the broom, for I dared not pick him up. He’d sit in the living room breathing hard and snorting as he would slowly cool himself down, our other cats looking on in amazement from the relative safety of the hallway.
Alas Trotsky is no more, but his ashes sit on our windowsill as a reminder to our household to not get of line.
Submitted by: Mike B.
Friday, November 16th, 2012
Location: Eternal Infamy
I liked to post sexy ab shots of myself on my blog to get more comments from the LADEEZ!
What makes Rascal so mean?
I am so cool that I have my own blog (see below)! However, I have a high standard for my humans, and they are required to adhere to it. I find I must constantly remind them as to their duties, which include but are not limited to:
* keeping my food bowl full at all times. If I see crumbs or the bottom of the bowl, then I have the right to demand attention to it.
* feeding me kitty treats. They know when I want them, as I sit up to let them know.
* keeping my water cup full of fresh water. I do not drink out of a bowl. I have my own cup. If it isn’t kept up to standards then I have the right to jump up on the bathroom vanity and drink out or Dad’s cup.
* letting me in and out on demand. I have a kitty door but humans should show proper respect and open the big door for me.
* petting on demand. They usually do this quite well but haven’t learned to read my mind in regards to when I’ve had enough.
* playing with me. I like to play chase the string or stick. I like to play catch with one of my toys. However, I reserve the right to be entertained by watching rather than participating.
If these standards are not kept then I have the right to use loud vocalizations (at 3 am if necessary), claws, and teeth to keep my humans in line.
Photo submitted by: Leigh
Rascal’s Blog (http://welcometorascalsworld.blogspot.com)
RIP, MEAN RASCAL. YOU WILL BE MISSED.
Sunday, December 11th, 2011
Name: King Henry
Location: Philadelphia, PA
I'm Henry the King, I am I am! If you don't bow down, I'll pee on your head.
What makes KH so mean?
King Henry wasn’t always a king. I got him reluctantly from a pet store when he was six months old. In the beginning he was sweet and loved to play like every other psycho kitten. Eventually he would steal things from my dresser and hide them or push things off a table just to watch them fall and then tuck them somewhere that I could not find them.
I made the mistake of getting him a playmate 3 months later and he hated him. Poor Snoopy was always the brunt of his anger. I frequently had to pull Snoopy out of Henry’s headlock.
It wasn’t until yrs later that he earned the status of king. We used to have a Doberman named Jezebel and even the Doberman was afraid of Henry because Henry liked to hide in his kitty condo and take a swipe at her when she wasn’t looking then hide back in the condo to make her think no one was there. Jez would bring him her toy and he would look at the slobber drenched thing as if it was beneath him to play with her. He would refuse to drink out of a waterbowl and instead would wake me up from a deep sleep in the middle of the night to turn on the bathtub faucet for him to drink fresh water. If I didn’t heed his commands then something would get thrown onto the floor, trashcan turned over, or papers would be torn off my bulletin board. When I moved in with a friend who had 2 cats he even kicked them out because he was so dominant!
I am allowing my handmaidens to recline upon my bed before they must massage my shoulders and dance for me.
He also found out that peeing and pooping on things was another avenue to take out his frustration at me. He peed on all my things and I can’t tell you how many clothes, pillows, stuffed animals and linens I threw out. He even peed on the Christmas gifts because they were in his way! If he wanted to go out and was told no, he’d poop in front of you to show his gratitude. If there was a visitor staying overnight he’d poop on their bed along with long stares at what he considered intruders.
Once he jumped on my bed sweet as pie and doing the head butting and purring. Boy was I a sucker because he slowly straddled my arm and began to urinate.
I pressed my luck 5 yrs ago and got another kitten. My vet knew how territorial Henry was and I was under strict command to only get a female kitten; otherwise that new cat would be six feet under. I was even turned down at a no kill shelter because of Henry’s personality.
When Violet first met the King she smacked him on the head. Big mistake. Although he didn’t attack her she quickly learned she was at the bottom of the pecking order. He eventually would throw her down on the floor and bite her neck to remind her of who the boss was. It didn’t help that at one time he was 27 pounds! He went on a diet and lost 5 lbs.
He had a myriad of health issues on top of his behavior. Diverticulitis, diabetes, obesity, constipation (which made for monthly bowel evacuation trips to the vet) and UTI’s/crystals. The UTI’s were so bad he even had to get major surgery to have his penis removed! But that didn’t matter, he was still the King.
Sadly, the problems he suffered got the best of him and Henry had to put to sleep on 8/16/09 immediately after I came home from a trip to Puerto Rico. He was 13 years old. What a way to come back from vacation.
Even after the round the clock care he required, trips to the ER, the peeing and the expensive medication and food he ate he was worth it. He was one of the best cats I owned-even his cremation box says King Henry on the nameplate.You are missed, crazy kitty!!
Photo submitted by: Alina
Note: RIP King Henry. You were awesomely mean.
Tuesday, September 27th, 2011
Name: King James
I command you to scratch the royal fluffy belly. Then I command you to hold still while I bite you for scratching the royal fluffy belly.
What makes King James so mean?
His highness came to live with us (me and my sister) after someone else declawed his royal paws! The world would pay for the injury!
King James hated his slaves’ boyfriends and would poop in the men’s shoes. He knew what shoes belonged to whom and pooped accordingly.
He once woke me from a sound sleep by punching me in the face. He had been perched above me watching me sleep and I moved before he said it was okay, so I suffered the consequences. If a dog came too close to him, wham, he’d punch them right between the eyes. With no claws, he developed a really mean right hook.
Other coping methods – he would roll on his back and pretend to want your love and affection. As soon as you put your hands out to pet his ever so soft luxuriousness, he’d bite.
While fighting a pretender to the crown (neighborhood cat) KJ and the other cat fell into the royal swimming pool. Humiliated, King James walked up the steps to the royal bedchamber, resisted all advances to aid him, and rolled all over the blanket, soaking it, before licking himself dry with his royal scratchy tongue.
The sweater shelf isn't throney enough. Place me somewhere higher and more regal at once!
He would allow himself to be held if no strangers were about and you would reward him by placing him somewhere extra high and cozy, like the sweater shelf. If you ever called him “Mr. Silky Pants” he’d get really pissed and leave the room.
He terrorized the neighbor’s indoor kitty by punching a hole in their screen door and running in to fight her under her own bed! But first, he created his own royal cat door in our apartment using the same methods.
At the end of his long reign (he lived well over 20 years) blind and arthritic, he demanded we take the day off from work to hold him while he passed to his royal reward (he went naturally, no vet, no drugs).
Meanest, greatest, most magnificent of all the kitty monarchs! The King is dead….mew.
Submitted by: Janette
Wednesday, August 31st, 2011
Location: Somewhere there’s an Omen
Just goes to prove how dumb dogs are, wouldn't you say?
What makes Damien so mean?
He may appear to be a gentle cat, but Damien exhibited some of the most severe anti-canine behavior I ever witnessed. Instead of running from dogs, he was always on the attack! His most recent victory occurred when a friend of my wife brought her Great Dane to one of my wife’s pool parties. The Dane decided to investigate the kitty sleeping on the chair, only to find that the kitty was a very light sleeper. The dog received with several slashes to the nose, totally terrorizing this huge dog. After that, this dumb dog went for a repeat performance, checking out Damien at the water dish. The cat did the traditional ‘swirl of fur’ around the dog’s head and face. This finally made an impression on the dog that he was not welcome in the house; now the dog refuses to leave his owner’s vehicle whenever they visit.
Damien was also very protective when it came to me. One afternoon, my wife was poking me (in fun), and Damien thought I was being attacked, came to my ‘rescue’ and punished my wife by wrapping himself around her with legs and claws out and teeth biting. Damien’s mother was a Siamese, with his father being a run of the mill alley cat. The Siamese may be where he inherited the “Nasty Catittude”.
RIP Damien, 1999-2004.
Submitted by: Ed
Wednesday, March 30th, 2011
April MAY (june?) do as she likes!
What makes April so mean?
April was a stray before we got her from the Cat Rescue Unit. I am 12 years old and I’ve wanted a cat since I was 6. We got our cats, Lucy & April, about 4 years ago. April is Lucy’s mother. April is really horrible to Lucy and meows madly and hisses at her all the time. April likes chocolate and had to get some of her teeth removed when we got her because her teeth were rotten and probably causing her pain. April is the meanest kitty I’ve ever known in my life. She puts the “OW!” into “MEOW!”.
Photo submitted by: Hazel
RIP April, who left us in 2004 for the big scratching post in the sky.
Friday, October 8th, 2010
Location: Chapel Hill, NC
My fiendish plot to take over the house succeeded! See how much smarter than humans I am?
What makes Merle so mean?
He’s big, he’s black, and he’s bad. Thus far Merle, all 18 pounds of him, has bloodied up three cat sitters, terrorized numerous house guests and kicked more dog butt than any feline in the South.
Merle was a feral cat with a broken leg who wandered into my garden one day. He would stretch out on the rows of vegetables and watch me as I weeded. When I weeded too close to him–ZAP–he’d hiss and make me bleed. It took months before he would let anyone even touch him.
Later that year as hurricane Fran approached, I knew I had to get Merle out of the barn and into the house (Kitty Quaaludes from the Vet were the only answer). Well, he has refused to go outside ever since. He stalks the dogs and blocks the door so they can’t come in the house. He bites me when I leave for work. He insists on getting his treats before the dogs get theirs, but what I fear the most is going out of town and leaving him alone with a cat sitter. On three different occasions I’ve received frantic calls from friends who fell prey to Merle and his ugly tricks. The lady next door had to call her husband over to rescue her once because Merle had her trapped and wouldn’t let her out the door.
RIP Merle! Your bites will not be missed (much) but the rest of you will.
ETA 2007: Merle completed his tour here on earth yesterday and is now in the company of his big sister Twyla, somewhere up there where kitties and doggies go.
“I don’t want a cat,” I said. “I really don’t want a cat. Especially a mean one like that.” That’s what I said. That’s not how it all played out. I fell in love with the meanest and strangest cat I’d ever met. He SLOWLY evolved into the most loving, sweet kitty one can imagine. If only all cats could have his charm and attitude.
Photo submitted by: Sally Jo
Monday, August 23rd, 2010
Location: KITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM
Pardon me, I'm busy thinking of some revenge and how to serve it cold.
What makes Cody so mean?
Several years ago, when one of my two cats died, the other started showing definite signs of depression. He barely touched his food, didn’t want to play, etc. I consulted my vet, and he suggested getting another cat immediately. In fact, he just happened to have one!
The adorable little tuxedo kitty they brought out was six months old. He was cradled in the receptionist’s arms and blinked at me with bright green eyes, as innocent as he could be.
“Oh, isn’t he cute?” I said, leaning in for a closer inspection.
At which point the adorable little tuxedo kitty reared back for leverage and took a swipe at me that would’ve taken my face off if I hadn’t moved. Quickly.
“Don’t worry.” The vet smiled. “He’ll be fine once he gets used to you.”
I’ve always loved a challenge.
I named him Cody—after Cody Jarrett, the psychotic killer in Cagney’s film “White Heat”. Trust me. It fit. What the vet DIDN’T tell me was that Cody had been returned to his mini-shelter three times by others, and his file permanently labeled “anti-social”. Uh-huh.
Never mind the fact that he never did get along with the other cat, who loved EVERYBODY. Or that he refused to be petted or accept any show of affection.
Don't tell me that you're innocent. Because it insults my intelligence and it makes me very angry.
There’ve been incidents over the years. He’s earned his gansta rep. One example is the Godfather Goldfish Caper he led, somehow snaring one of my poor goldfish from the depths of a twenty-gallon tank sitting five feet off the ground. I came home to find the remains laid out at the threshold of my door, not unlike the horse’s head in the film.
Or when I went to pick him up at the vet’s after a blood test and had the receptionist look at me with horror, saying, “Oh, that’s YOUR cat.” Apparently, Cody took umbrage at having his cage set on top of a dog’s, and somehow managed to contort his body enough to claw the poor sick creature’s nose.
And there is the fact that he believes in serving his revenge cold. Yes, revenge. Chastise Cody with a loud, harsh word or squirt from the water bottle? He’ll freeze. Give you that cold, green psycho stare. And walk away. But there will be retribution. Wait for it. For my first lesson, he bided his time for nearly two hours, so I’d nearly forgotten the incident, to hide around the corner of the stairs and reach out at just the right moment to claw and trip me.
I survived. I learned. Law of the jungle.
And did I mention how much I love the little monster?
Photo submitted by: Raine Weaver
(Raine is an author: http://www.raineweaver.com and she and Cody got interviewed by Meankitty at the blog.)
ETA: Cody is no longer with us but his meanness lives on, says Raine. RIP Cody!