Tag Archives: Siegfried

Killer Kitten Needs a Good Home

Sebastien and I have been fostering kittens since we adopted our cat Siegfried. We got him from a woman who runs a non-profit organization that rescues stray cats. She needed some help with temporary homes for the animals and we thought it would be a fun service.

Usually when we receive a new foster kitten, it’s a mangy, stinky, ball of fur that can’t tell it’s tail from its nose. Siegfried mothers it for a while and then the kitten enters what I’d like to call Siegfried’s School of Etiquette. In SSE, kittens learn how to not beg for food or steal food off of plates, how to clean themselves, how to be playful but professional, and much much more.

The foster kitten that we have now is failing all of her classes. Her name is Bridgette and she has wreaked havoc on our humble home. She bites, she hisses, she pisses on our furniture and will attack anything that breathes. She shows no remorse for her actions.

And she’s in need of a good home. Because we can’t take it anymore.

Looking for a little fur ball to cuddle up with on the couch? You’ve come to the wrong place. Bridgette will go after every limb on your body like its a piece of catfish. She won’t rub up against your leg when you’re standing around the house. She’ll attack it, and dig her claws into your thigh.

Planning on getting a new couch for the living room? You can also plan on Bridgette urinating all over it. She’s just does it once though, to remind people that she can do whatever she wants.

Have other pets at home in need of a companion? Bridgette loves to play with other animals, mostly sinking her teeth into their necks or sneaking up on them while they’re sleeping. And you can forget about sleeping, too. Bridgette will keep you awake all night, bouncing on your stomach and attaching anything that is under the blanket.

Think you can just put her in the cage for the night? Think again. Bridgette’s meow can reach about 98dB–that’s as loud as a hand drill.

But she’s really cute.



When she’s not in kill mode.




Reflections on Reflections

Our cat Siegfried recently discovered his own reflection in the dishwasher. We’ve had him for three years so I’m not quite sure what took him so long. He is a cat of course so some delay is excusable. But now that Sigs found his reflection, he’s obsessed with himself. The cat no longer reacts to food or cat treats or even pieces of dental floss dangled in front of his head. He never comes to me when I call him anymore, but I guess he never did that anyway. He did love greeting me at the door or running up to the window when I would get really excited because there was a pigeon on a tree in our backyard. But he doesn’t care about any of that now.  He is enthralled by himself and will sit in front of the dishwasher for hours, bobbing his head around, no doubt to check out his reflection in various angles.

SigssovainWhen I first noticed it a few weeks ago, I decided that the cat probably got it from Sebastien because of all the selfies on his phone.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m as narcassistic as they come. But I don’t want other people to know. So I take selfies, admire them for a short period of time, and delete them.  If I get hit by a car, again, (it happened before the days of cellphones) imagine how they would eulogize me if they found a cellphone full of nothing but pictures that I took of myself.

“We are gathered here to mourn the passing of Amy, who to our knowledge and based off of her photos, never spent time with anyone but herself, sitting or standing in various poses around her apartment.”

I just delete them that way my conscience is clear. Taking selfies has become a part of society and there’s really nothing wrong with it, but I sometimes get embarrassed by my habits.

I used to hide other idiosyncrasies from Sebastien like picking my nose or watching re-runs of the same TV show over and over and over ad nauseam. For example, every season of The Office is available on Netflix streaming. So sometimes I would watch a bunch of the same episodes that I’d already seen hundreds of times before. Before Sebastien got home each night, I would sit in front of the TV starting and stopping some other random shows so that those shows would appear in the ‘recently viewed’ window on Netflix and he would have no clue that I spent my afternoon watching a show that I can recite word-for-word. It was tiring. I eventually had to get over it and come clean. And Sebastien’s fine with it.

Married life is all about accepting the other person for who they are. The longer the two of us stay together, the more we peel back another layer of the mask that we present to the world to reveal who we truly are, warts and all.  I just hope that the unravelling continues at a slow pace. Hpefully, by the time we know absolutely everything about the other person, we’ll have no choice but to accept it because we’ll be too old and too lazy to go looking for someone else.

My Cat is Cuter Than Your Baby

After I got married, my social life drastically shifted. Instead of spending all of my spare time in the comfort of my home watching re-runs of Murder She Wrote or making out random lists, I started socializing with people. And most of those people happen to be other married couples, some with children. I’m still socially awkward around them and when I’m not hyperventilating in a public restroom I try to keep my conversations fairly basic: How are you? How are you doing?

That usually gets me through the first 2 minutes. And then I ask the only other question I can think of: How is your baby?

This inevitably leads to another 20 minutes of couples gushing over their child and how amazed they are by their offspring’s simple, oftentimes involuntary acts.

“Charlie smiled today.”

“Shelly farted.”

“Bradley stood up on his own for the first time.”

It is during these moments that I would love nothing more than to crawl back into my apartment and sit alone in the dark (how peaceful). But society frowns upon this sort of behavior. So I go to my fallback plan: I whip out my phone and start passing around pictures of my cat, Siegfried.

If the parents I am with are insistent on their child’s superiority, I follow up with a line of questioning that goes something like this. Does your baby also greet you at the door when you come home? Can your baby chase after a laser pointer? Does your baby even know what a laser pointer is?

That usually quiets them down. Of course, I’m never sure if they stop arguing because I’ve won the debate or if they just have doubts about my mental state. And if you still have doubts, just take a look at these photos of Siegfried.


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From Me to We

Lately Sebastien and I have started looking at condos for sale. Sebastien’s looking at 2 bedrooms and I’m really pushing for anything with a bedroom that’s big enough to fit a queen sized bed, two dressers and a nightstand (a hard request in a city like Manhattan). But none of that really matters because we’re not seriously considering buying anything. Or at least he’s not.

Then one day I received some pleasing news. Sebastien sent me an email with a link to an apartment that he said was a “good deal”. It was in a good part of town and it was spacious. I was ready to call it home.

I suggested we go see it and he said it was too far. “But this could be our new home,” I said, our noses touching as we talked in our 3 foot by 3 foot kitchen while making dinner. “Just think of all of the space.”

“I’m not ready to buy.”

I took a step back, banging into the fridge. “You really need to start changing that to we ” I said. “We’re not ready to buy, our house.” I looked down at our cat, Siegfried, “this is our cat.” Then I thought about it for a second. “This is our cat unless we get divorced and then it becomes my cat,” I said. “Do you see how that works?” Sebastien nodded, but I wasn’t so sure he got it.

Later we sat down on the couch to eat our fish and kale. Siegfried hopped up on the couch next to me, staring at my plate. I told Sebastien that this was what was going to happen if he started feeding him pieces of fish from the table. The same thing happened with my family dog, S.A.M.

S.A.M. was a toy poodle and yes his name is an acronym. It stands for Sir Algernon Musorsky (ask my mom she named him). For whatever reason, S.A.M. was fed better than the children in the house: He got meat, milk, cake, ice cream, beer, coffee, whatever he wanted. And of course his wants quickly turned into demands. So anytime someone was at the kitchen table S.A.M. would stand by on the floor, incessantly barking with that high-pitched poodle bark that shook the coffee mugs hanging on the wall, until he was fed. We got so used to his bark that it became our dinnertime music. And none of us could ever figure out why dinner guests were so annoyed.

Siegfried was turning right before my eyes, raising his paw up to my plate. I kept batting him away, but could sense that it was only a matter of time before I gave in. “I told you not to feed him table scraps,” I said to Sebastien. “Look at the monster you’ve created.”

“No, no,” Sebastien said. “The monster that we’ve created.”

I had to hand it to him, Sebastien was a fast learner.

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