FYI

Rylie wanted me to take a moment to remind everybody that he is extremely photogenic and amazingly handsome.

Rylie Thinks He's Reginald Jeeves

Rylie is wrong. I believe his completely inaccurate assessment of his own character in comparison to the characters of the P.G. Wodehouse world lies entirely in his inability to read. Let it be noted that this difficulty with reading human text did not stop him from marking the copy as his own (Sorry, Rylie, it belongs to the public library.)

Rylie's propensity for buffoonery and silly pranks most certainly rank him as the Bertie Wooster in the Rylie and me pair. I will give him this: he is certainly the Jeeves when it comes to Rylie and Newt. However, Rylie can barely conceal his seething disdain of Newt for extended periods lacking any suitable distraction; so, Rylie is still ultimately wrong.

Moreover, neither of us really can be a Jeeves. Rylie because he's such a Wooster and me because I'm more like a colorful background character. I'm definitely not a Madeline Bassett (I think that would be Zelda), but probably a Stiffy Byng spliced with Aunt Dahlia sort - probably with a Dash of Jeeves because I do tolerate Rylie marvelously and I do actually like him.

Sassy Sasquatching

Do you remember that scene toward the end of "Harry and the Hendersons"? The one where Harry's fellow sasquatches (sasquatchi?) come out of the forest scene as if by magic due to their powers of stealth and awesomeness? Well, lately Rylie and his brother from another mother, Newt, have been pulling that sasquatch prowess on me. EVERY time I open the front door, cats magically pop out of the woodwork.

Clearly I need to do a better job restricting the films I allow Newt and Rylie to see. They're getting too many ideas. Next they'll be trying to overturn the refrigerator, stealing the neighbours' roses, and eating 16th birthday corsages.

Missing in Inaction

Much to Rylie's delight, I was spirited away to the Detroit area back in Detroit. He had a relaxing month without being pestered for affection. Meanwhile, I was downstate helping out my aunt, who managed to break her ankle in three places because she is an absolute show-off. Apparently the family curse has something to do with women breaking ankles, because I fractured my tibia at my ankle two years ago and my mother broke her ankle in one place 15 years ago.

While I was with my aunt, I had the opportunity to harass Rylie's cousin. "Ginger Balls" or "Ginger" were the preferred names for him. My aunt persisted in pointing out that he had been neutered, but was less than thrilled when I altered the first nickname to "Ginger Ball-less."

In the months since coming home, I've just been lazy. Rylie has finally nipped and kneaded his way into getting an update out of me. In that sense, Rylie is like the Mafia. Jimmy Hoffa is probably buried on the farm Rylie was abducted from. I suspect I'll find a cat-sized fedora hidden under my bed along side a cat-sized tommy gun. He's probably distilling catnip gin under the bathroom counter. Honestly, I would be kind of okay with that, because I'm a sucker for the roaring twenties. My only real concern entails the discovery of my most cherished toy from child hood, my stuffed rabbit, Bugs', severed head being found between my sheets.

Sibling Rivalry

I believe this succession of pictures says it all:










It's JUST LIKE your little brother, who inevitably always looks like a stoner in pictures, to ruin your classy photo shoot.

The Pride and Prejudice Factor

A considerable amount of people wonder why I would put up with Rylie, considering that his usual personality is that of a fuzzy a-hole. While I will admit that his looks are what first attracted me to him -- I do believe the exact exclamation upon seeing kitten!Rylie was "he's PERFECT!" -- we most certainly have a Lizzie/Darcy thing going on.

He likes me well enough, I like him enough to make him my partner in blogging. We just love to antagonise one another it seems. Rylie is also quite aloof and greatly dislikes having his feathers ruffled, and ruffling his feathers is one of my greatest pleasures in life. Rylie and Darcy have similar facial expressions as well, each bridging the amazing extremes of "annoyed" and "PLEASE DIE NOW." Also: I'm pretty sure Mr. Darcy would dig licking yoghurt off spoons and biting armpits. I DEFINITELY got that vibe from the novel and both current, popular film adaptations (his head is TOTALLY on BBC/Colin Firth Darcy). I could also see Rylie wearing frilly blouses and writing in his diary a lot. He would probably compose innumerable emo poems about the darkness of his soul and the idiocy of those around him.

Of course, Rylie and I usually fail to get to the point where his pride is re-evaluated. However, I believe that I can beat him into submission with taunting, yoghurt, catnip, and hugging it out.

My Cat, Rylie

Rylie came to live with me in July of 2006.

Well, that's not exactly true. My phrasing implies he came to live here by choice.

Rylie was abducted from a barn in Ohio that was months away from being torn down. My aunt caught him and my mother shoved him in a large box. A cousin was abducted as well, but this blog is devoted to my life with Rylie and the rest of our family, not to his cousin, Shit Gizmo. The kittens tried valiantly to escape their cardboard prison, thus making a 3½ hour drive last for around 6 hours. After living with Rylie, I am more than certain he was the one leading the charge.

To date, Rylie and I have had a very complicated relationship. Our quarrels generally are the result of him being a curmudgeon and my wanting hug/pet/nuzzle him.

Occasionally I threaten physical violence against him and abandonment. Rylie, despite his act of simplicity, is wise enough to know all of my threats are empty. He, on the other hand, prefers to bluff with affection -- he starts to nuzzle, then a minute later, just as I think he's going to be nice, hauls off and bites me. While purring. He especially likes biting the skin in my armpits -- and I fall for it every time. His tendency to chew my skin leads me to believe that one day I will pass out and, in a hungry panic, he will eat me.

Presently Rylie lives with a motley crew of other animals, most notably the newest addition: Newt(on -- after Sir Isaac!). Newt and Rylie get along fairly well, although Newt's exuberance tends to get on Rylie's nerves. There have been hisses at bathroom sink (and I can't blame Rylie there: Newt's inability to properly get a sink drink is annoying) as well as at the foot of the bed. Because both boys like to follow me, they trip over each other. That tripping inspires Rylie to put on his crappy face.

Aside from Newt, Rylie also lives with a large Golden Retriever named Skye. For the time (read: until I a.)win the lottery, which will be amazing considering I don't play, b.)knock over a bank, c.)get a job that actually pays, or d.) finally find a sugar daddy) we live my mother and her black cat, Zelda.

From time to time there will be peeps and whispers of a new king from the other residents of the house. However, Rylie has made it perfectly clear that this is his domain. It's amazing what grumpy faces will get you in life.