Thursday, July 1, 2010

The Kitten Edition

Like many a burlesque dancer out there, I have fur-babies. Kittens. Kittletts. Often called Boogers. They eat my boas and push sequins off the table, but they are little drag queens in fur coats, and my cuddly buggers, and this post is going to show you them.

Photo by Ken Lam from our Get Your Makeup Did event

Blaise, on the left, is a bit of an evil bastard. He was adopted in August 2005, and he's almost six. I can't say enough good things about the Brampton Animal Shelter where I got him. Pym is the terrified little tabby 'n white on the right. He's generally shy as hell until night time rolls around...when he becomes a squeaking monster demanding pets.

Blaise came fully kitted out with a free vet check, pet insurance, shots and his bits snipped. Interesting extras included a full set (20) of pointy knives on each toe, and obscenely large teeth.

Witness the toothy fiend! Yes, that's my toe on the right. He chompers actually stick out under his cheeks, like a modern sabretooth. He has a great many habits, for example: in the fall/winter one of the most likely places to find him is behind my laptop, kicking the back and clawing at my fingers as I type. The motor's warm, I suppose. I've gotten used to the possibly-unsettling reality of this face:

Mostly, our relationship is like:

Blaise and i tend to get along on a 'fuck that noise' level. We both have the same tolerance levels, but since he's a cat he tends to forgo diplomacy and is able to be a ratbastard whenever he likes. I love him for it. He has his cuddly moments, as I do, and he's pretty insistent about being given attention Right Now, whenever that 'now' may be. Must be nice to be a cat.

Pym, on the other hand, is a sweetheart and hella skittish. He was adopted 'by accident' from a pet store that was not supposed to sell kittens. Unbeknownst to me, they had foster kittens in the store one cold November, 2005. I walked in to get Blaise some treats and this little 5 month furball meow'd at me...but no sound came out. The sales lady told me he'd been found nearly frozen, half dead under a wheelbarrow.*

I took him home.

He still has a broken meow. It comes out as a squeak, or a trill, or a really weird sound. I've hypothesized his possible alien origins. He's a little over five years now, and he's calmed down quite a bit from his initial shyness. Night time is always the time he creeps out and pretends he wants you to pet him. By the time you get into bed he will force you to pet him.

And after force-pets, he will burrow if given the slightest chance.

Action shot!

He's had a few (costly) issues with his bladder/kindeys lately, and the trips to the vet haven't made him too pleased with me. I had to rush him there for an overnight stay on the eve of Toronto's Strip Search 2010. A hefty bill later, and he's fine. I watch him like a hawk now, and he's fine if caught early.

Besides, look at this face. Could you resist?

This is often why I'm
late for work

Many pets are little performers in their own rights. I'm pulling together a post for the future, detailing the lives of performers and their pets. If you'd like to be included, please email me a picture of you and your pet at sspernicious (at) gmail .com with your stage name and your pets' name. Any critter will do!

Go hug your fluffers!


*I'm positive they use this backstory for all their foster kittens. It works.

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