Mimir goes by many names – Meer, Meemsy, Pooh Bear, Tiger Cat.   And then there is my personal favorite – Mimir Damnit – which is probably the name the cat is called more than any of the others.    Granted, in the past, calling the cat “Damnit” has gotten me in trouble.   Who can ever forget their first call by their child’s teacher asking that you come in for a meeting.  And who can forget the ensuing discussion of your child’s family tree whereupon you find a picture of an orange blob with the name “Mimir Danmit” written on a bottom limb?    Mimir, like the other females in this house, is opinionated, stubborn and determined to do it her way.   You’d think we playing Frank Sinatra on perma-loop around here.

Mimir at play

Meemsy picked me in a random pet store five years ago today.    She was found six months prior, while taking her kittens from the abandoned house where she gave birth to a house across the street with a open basement.   The couple who saw her crossing the street blocked off traffic until she could transport the final two kittens and then scooped them all up and turned them in to Second Chance.    Mimir weaned her babies two months later and they were all adopted right away; Mimir was not.     Fast forward four months and you find me at some pet store with a guy we shall simply refer to as “one of Jeri’s mistakes in dating” when I saw her.    Two weeks later Mimir came home and five years later, she’s a large part of my and Drue’s life.   The guy?  Yeah, not so much.

That’s not to say all is roses.   Anytime you have one opinionated, stubborn female in the house, you’re in for it.   Multiple that out by three… and well, you’ll understand why Jason is consistently up for the “Most Patient Person in the World” award each year.    Meemsy expects a certain amount of petting, rubbing and playing each and every day and there’s hell to pay if anyone in this household with opposable thumbs doesn’t come through and rub the puddy tat.

See? It's a belly!

Over the last five years, I’ve come to expect certain things from my cat.  If there’s a pile of papers in her spot – and by her spot I mean anywhere she deigns to be – they will be knocked on the floor.   Stacks of CDs, DVDs, video games, photos, books and laundry have fallen before her.   And after each display of her superior power, I get a look of pure innocence.  If Meemsy could speak, she would say something akin to “What?   I did nothing!”   Occasionally, I even get the belly after she’s been particularly naughty.  But don’t mistake this display as an invitation to pet her.   Because if you do, you’ll come away with bloody nubs instead of fingers…  and maybe even lost parts of your hand.   You think I’m feisty?  Pshaw.  I’ve got nothing on my cat.     Yes, she’s so cute!     But remember, you were warned!

I’ve decided Meemsy is some deity’s (pick your favorite and insert) way of reminding me that OCD is not always a good thing.   Or it’s a great reminder to move to a paperless, CD-less, existence (and for Drue, an ongoing reminder to put your laundry and DSi games away!).  Not that this is an issue, hm Drue?   HM?     It begins as innocuously as me creating a pile to go through and put away.  If I get up to snag a beverage, snag my cell phone or god forbid WORK, this activates Meemsy to action.    Meemsy goes from sleeping, peaceful kitty to a raging ball of orange fur.    Now in case you don’t speak cat – let me translate for you.     OMG!   TOWFM¹ put STUFF in MY SPOT.   That spot right there!   And even though I’ve been sleeping on TOWFM¹’s pillow for the last two hours, that place where TOWFM¹ put stuff is MY spot and I must be in MY spot right now.

Meemsy then proceeds to do us all a favor and pushes the offending whatever out of HER spot and claims it.   And when I come back into the room, beverage in hand, and find stuff all over the floor, I get to flip out.   Meemsy gets to look innocent and I get a three minute workout a la temper tantrum.   And then I pick up all the crap the cat has flung to the floor while she helps herself to my cup of whatever in search of her ongoing love of Splevda².   It’s kind of win/win if you think about it really hard (and consume three or four shots of tequila before thinking about it at all).

What is HE doing here?

Last January, I upset Mimir’s apple cart by bringing home a new pet.    Over the course of the last 13 months, I’ve held my breath, waiting to see what new torture Meems will inflict upon us. After all, I brought home a dog!   Worse yet, I brought home a dog who thinks he’s a Bear!   In typical sibling fashion, Meemsy tortures Kodi by sleeping on his blanket, blocking his path into his crate, attacking his tail and (oh LORD the worst) sleeping with his ball.    But other than inflicting agony on the Bear from time to time, Meer has been relatively placid and accepting of his presence.   Until now…

A few months ago, we made the transition from all-access cable with 300 channels of nothing to no television whatsoever.   Thanks to my ongoing love of the Olympics, we recently purchased an antennae and a converter box.   Thanks to my OCD and the fact that these days you can go wireless, we don’t have a lot of cords out and about.   Any cords we do have are folded or wrapped up, bound by color-coordinated velcro straps and tucked away.  Because cords are ugly, don’tcha know?    Because I have to move the antennae around to get certain channels (down by the window for NBC and PBS, and up on the bookcase for everything else), I haven’t tucked away the cables.  So they are OUT THERE for me to stress over (OCD) and for Mimir and everyone else to see.

The one time the dog takes precedence over the cat (her point of view) better known as one of the few times the cat does not climb in my lap and threaten the dog with his life if he comes too close (reality) is when Drue and I are snuggled up watching television.   Bear snuggles in and Drue snuggles in and Meemsy drapes herself over someone’s lap and digs her claws in to express her displeasure that HE is allowed near during a prime snuggle opportunity.   To date, there has been little to no recourse other than the application of her claws in my thigh which, eventually, gets her dumped out of my lap.   So in her evil cat way, she’s been searching for something she can do that will disrupt the Bear snuggling but not be such a big deal as to get her in tons of trouble.

Chewing is what puddies do!

Thanks to the antennae and converter box and those darn exposed cords, she’s found the one thing that makes us leap up to chase her out of the room, thereby disrupting and displacing the Bear.     It’s not enough that Meems will chew on -and attempt to consume – string, yarn, rubber bands, twist ties, ponytail holders, pencil erasers and feathers.  Nope, we can now add cord chewing to her repertoire.      That damn cat has finally figured out the one thing that will set me over the edge.   And I’ve wasted countless hours trying to figure out how to tuck these damn cords out of sight – and Meemsy’s reach – while having the lattitude to move it around to get the channels I need to watch the Olympics.   And Chuck.   And Fringe.  And um, Glee when it comes back on.   Damn you teevee!!   And of course, I am only trying to figure out the cord problem because of the cat.   It is not that my OCD causes me to come to a screeching halt in front of the television, glaring at the offending mess of cords hanging off to the right side.   Nope, not at all.   It’s all because of a certain little orange fuzzy thing whom I love and who drives me batshit simply because she finds the time I spend with my dog intolerable.    Damn cat.  So this is an ode to my cat who chews cords.  May she not electrocute herself or me before I manage to tuck those god-awful things behind a bookcase or something.   And may I not lose my mind in the process.

What’s that you say?  It’s too late?   Shup.

¹The One Who Feeds Me = TOWFM (duh!)

² Splevda is Splenda in cat-speak. Yes, the cat speaks. To me. In my own mind. What?