The Daily Bailey

It seems apparent to me that I have now taken over this blog. It is basically now my blog, since I’m the only one who ever posts. And I should get all of the credit, because I am the man. Isn’t that the way it works in this world? Which is why I am strongly suggesting renaming it. The Daily Bailey. Bailey’s Blog. Meow Memoirs. The New Feline Times. Confessions of a kibble-aholic. Cat Blog. Any of these fine names will do. Anything that is all about me. Everything should really be all about me. I don’t like not being paid attention to. Do you think it’s easy being this cute all of the time? I know I am small, but I should not be overlooked, or ignored, or taken for granted, or pushed aside. Especially not so SHE can take care of HIM. Take care of MEEE! I used to be the man of this house! I don’t care that he “hurt his ankle,” his sad face is not nearly as convincing or utterly adorable as mine. Although that ankle doesn’t look so hot ironman... I hope she doesn’t have to put you to sleep.

HE is getting the king’s treatment. Feet up on the table. Beer. Ice pack. Dinner. Kisses. What happened to you gimpy? Did you trip over one of my cat toys? No? Oh, too bad. Maybe next time. Listen, my paw might not be swollen to 100 times its natural size mr. cankles, but inside... I am in pain. Most likely from witnessing this charade. Hello?! I am over here looking precious on my chair. Where is my compassion? I want dinner (more specifically whatever you are having). I want kisses. I want to go on the table. This is out of control! He wasn’t in the war... He’s just a klutz. I see this game you’re playing male human and I’m onto you. Man up and quit your crying. Stop being a pussy... I am the pussy in this house.

The Daily Bailey

Right now I am lying on my little patch of rug in the direct sunlight, as I make my daily futile attempt at becoming not as white. SHE is so dark lately, and that pool boy she hangs out with looks like mud. Whyyyy am I so white??? I am apparently their child since she always says “Bailey, mommy’s home!!” and when HE comes over he says “Hi Son!” How did I end up with this elderly pallid coloring? So here I lay, taking in some rays. Nothing like sunbathing with the air conditioning on. It’s always pretty cool in the palace that I’ve renamed the Scoogloo. Brrrrisk. She must own stock in the energy company, because she certainly never opens the windows. There’s even a sign that states “Please do not open the windows” for all the strangers who come over and aren’t aware of the mandate. My catsitter thought that was dumb, along with the 400 notes she left him about my likes and dislikes, where my treats are, and how my automatic feeder has to be taped shut because I’m a boy genius. Let’s not tell her he said that.

The window thing is quite a big deal. There are no screens and she’s sure that I’ll end up doing a Superman out of it 10 floors to my impending death. Hence why they are practically bolted closed like a crypt. I think she was slightly offended when HE mentioned that the place was feeling like a tomb, I believe the word was “stale”, and maybe it could use some fresh air. So every night, while I’m relaxing far enough away from the window, she’ll go over and open it while standing in front of it with her arm on the handle. Air pours in, I get curious, start to make my way over to explore, and she immediately shuts it. This is the really dumb game we play all evening. And supposedly I'm the one who has the smaller brain...