Porch Cats and Max Images

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Can you tell he likes to go for a ride?

(Max riding in the late, lamented Maxda MX-3.)

No, you're wrong ... I am the boss of you. I'll crap on your pillow. I know where you sleep.

Tink ... well, crouching, lurking and glaring at somebody. It's sort of a hobby of hers.

I'm sooooo happy.


Yeah, I know -- I didn't tell you to look at me. I know there's a roll -- get over it. I'm almost 40.

I'm so happy -- please let me out now!


Well, it's really self-explanatory -- one of the first times Max was dumped in the tub and laved. He didn't seem to mind too much, but he was doggone (no pun intended) good and ready for it to be over when it was.

Max's northern roots are showing.


This was Max's first major snow, as far as I know. It was February of 2003, or thereabouts -- yeah, we still had almost two feet of snow on the ground here that late.

Guess that's what the coat's for, if Uncle Chuck Darwin was right.

Which is to say, the snow was deeper than Max is tall.

Wonder how many of him it would take to pull a decent sled?

He'd have stayed out there indefinitely, if we'd let him.

That would take a lot of Iams mini-chunks. And bags for the poop.


I wonder what he thinks is down there? His brain?

Money shot.


Okay, don't lecture me -- I know that's a porn expression. You'd have to live with Max to understand what a consummate innocent he actually is.

Max doesn't need to pull a sled. He is a sled. The only thing he didn't like about the snow was the ice balls that formed in his armpits (legpits?).


Honestly -- he loved it, as is clear. I guess all Spitz breeds probably do -- even smaller Pomeranians. It's what they were bred for, after all.

Max and Tony.





Her Highness, the Ubercat, reclines.

Tink -- our 'senior' cat at a whopping six years (and fifteen pounds).

The queen condemns her subject to banishment. Max looks enthralled, doesn't he? Maybe just dyspeptic.

As is probably clear from this picture, Tink doesn't think a great deal of Max, especially when somebody (Tony) shoves him in her face.

But, eventually even Her Highness has to do something other than lie on the table. Which is to say, poop or beleaguer the other cats or Max. Or poop.


The queen finishes her sitting and prepares to go elsewhere, to glare at different subjects. Or perhaps to poop on something.




Gord, Squeek and Doodle preparing for a 'love fest' (i.e., a hissing and wrestling match).

Omigod! Duck, Batman! Those cats have LASERS IN THEIR HEADS!!

I don't know -- looks like either Squeek or Doodle standing in the window, with Gord ascendant. We were out front with the dog and happened to have the camera and Tony took this shot of glowing cat eyes.

Another bath. By now, Max is used to being damp.


He hasn't really ever given us very much trouble about bathing him, for that matter. As inconvenient as it is for him, he likes the attention.

Did I mention he likes going for a ride?


Shot in the 'vanity mirror' in the passenger sun visor if the car I bought to replace the Mazda, a late-model Toyota RAV4. Makes hauling the dog around much more pleasant than a car that should have been a two-seater to begin with.

Tonight, the part of the Vicious Biscuit will be played by The Doodle.


Doodle vents thoroughly, on a rare occasion we are able to play with her without Squeek, Gord and Max joining the fray and Doodle winding up somewhere uptsairs, hollering at shadows out a window.



Squeek has issues with our HP printer. It's not a new thing, by any means -- apparently, issues with a printer is a cat tradition. It's just that Squeek is the only one who's so compulsive about it we have to move her off the hutch to print anything.

The very picture of indolence.


Tink and Gord lounging on the Fosters & Smith cat furniture. Consider this an endorsement -- it keeps them from shredding the furniture (no, none of them is declawed).

Rocket scientist.


I swear, Max isn't a complete dodo -- but he sure looks like it in every close-up shot I ever take of him.