Don't ever believe it if your human says she'll let you blog every night. She won't.
Sometimes she's just not with the program. She goes and plays mindless games on Facebook.
Sometimes she just obsesses over that other blog. Sometimes she falls asleep.
Sometimes she just talks on the phone, or plays a guitar.
And meanwhile, we just want to write on our blog.
So finally, we're back.
Tonight, it's Squeak's turn:
I hate the fact that everyone just thinks I'm cute. They treat me like I'm some kind of retard, just because I'm cute. Well, actually, I'm a little more than cute. Especially when my hair isn't cut into this silly (but very practical!) hairdo. I know as well as the next cat knows that when my hair is long, I'm beautiful.
And if you don't mind: I'd like you to call me by my Turkish name: it's Beyaz. Not Squeak. I know old Pişi would grumble and say I'm not the Turkish cat, she is, but I like the name so much more. It sounds so much more like me.
Both of my names are kind of literal: in English, I'm Squeak, and that's because I don't meow, I squeak. Yeah, I squeak, therefore, I am.
And I'm also beyaz, which means White.
Yeah, it's a stupid name,
but I think it's pretty.
After all, in Turkey, there was this guy who named a whole book after Snow.
You got Pişi's story. (OK, if you didn't, see below.) I will readily admit that hers is far more exotic. Mine is just the run-of-the-mill American neglect story. Someone adopted me from the SPCA. Sure, I remember them; I just prefer to not talk about who they were. They gave me a good home, for awhile. I was, after all, a really cute kitten. They even let me go out and play, with the other cats and with the dogs. It was fun.
But then it happened: I got fleas. I seem to have a lot of skin problems. Not my fault, you know? I think it's part of my breeding. Anyway, I got fleas, and I'm really allergic to them. My former humans thought they'd get me a flea collar. They bought it at the grocery store, I think. Well, it was awful. It made me feel so sick. My neck felt like it was burning up. And it didn't help the fleas.
My fur was coming off in big hunks. I didn't even want to take a bath. And then they decided to help me: they gave me a bath in the flea shampoo made of the same stuff that the collar was treated with.
I thought I would die.
I cried and cried. My body was like it was on fire.
I cried and cried.
I cried and cried.
So they took me back to the SPCA. I was two years old.
I have to give those people at the SPCA credit: they took good care of me.
The gave me medicine, and good food. I had a warm home for a little while while I got better. But then they did send me to a pet store, where I sat in a cage for a couple months. And one day, she just showed up. The Big Two Legged One.
She'd seen my picture at the SPCA's website! And she thought I looked Turkish. So she came and got me.
I was SO happy! Little did I know I'd just moved in with Psycho-Cat. I lived in one room for about three months, while I got used to the fact that Psycho-Cat lived with me. And Psycho-Cat got used to the fact I lived with her.
I was really happy in that one room. I'd get all this individual attention, brushing, and little treats. When I moved out into the rest of the house, it got kind of dangerous for awhile. Seriously. I live with a crazy cat.
I've had some really rough times with the Piss-head, but we've also gotten used to each other. When we're here hanging out alone, sometimes we tell each other stories about our crappy pasts. And then we kind of squint and roll in the sun, and she'll play a bit, then I'll play a bit. I generally like it, but I know Pişiwill give me trouble when she wants to sit on the Bit Two Legged One's lap.
That's ok. Over the months, I've come to understand one crucial thing about Pişi: she can't hear a thing. That's why she acts so defensively when she's awake. When she's asleep, I can do anything. And I do. Sometimes when she's awake, I can walk right up behind her and hit her on the butt, and then run, and it's really kind of funny.
So it's really not so bad here.