No pets

The expansion of Pablo Enterprises has hit a snag.

Intolerant landlords.

I was hoping to relocate the Pablo Enterprises headquarters in West Hobart to bigger premises somewhere in the greater Hobart area, preferably inner-city (I don't think I'm much of an outer suburbs kind of cat, frankly). But those plans have now been shelved due to the irrational bias of the landlords of Hobart against pets.

Above are just a few damning examples of the kind of intolerance that pets requiring decent housing face EVERY DAY. ( I realise that there's one there that doesn't say 'no pets'. But give me a break. You try using scissors without opposable thumbs!)

If it was up to me, these landlords would be NAMED and SHAMED... but Kate made me censor the phone numbers of these heartless despots. I'm currently waiting to hear back from Naomi Robson of Today Tonight to see if she wants to come and do a story on the issue. It's an outrage, a story that no Australian can afford to miss! Everyone knows that pets (cats, anyway) increase the value and prestige of a property.

When Pablo Enterprises gets a better cash flow, I'm going to buy a house and put an ad in the paper to lease it out. And guess what the ad is going to say? 'No people' (or 'No people without a cat'. That's less catchy though. We'll see).

But every cloud has a silver lining. As I'm staying on in West Hobart, the West Hobart Tigers Organising Committee has renewed my contract for season 2007. Unanimous vote. I'm stoked. Thanks, boys!
Cheers,
Pabs

...and that's why you don't rub my tummy

What was she thinking?

Kate, of all people, knows the Seven Commandments of Pablo Touching:
1. No rubbing or scratching of the tummy- even when asleep.
2. No pulling of the tail- even when asleep.
3. Any kind of interference with the whiskers is a no go.
4. Don't pick me up in that way.
5. Don't pick me up (in any way) and sing to or about me and/or dance with me.
6. Especially to ABBA music (bad memories from my first housepeople, Nikki and Heidi).
7. Is that seven yet?

She SO should have known better. Next time, maybe.
-- Pabs

Stringplay

Apart from eating, sleeping and rumblin' with the Tigers, this is my favourite thing to do.

It's called stringplay.

I don't think that this still image (left) does stringplay justice... though even I have to admit that I look pretty damn fine mid-pounce. Stringplay's just so dynamic and fast-paced. How it works is I get one of the housepeople to sort of fling the string around and I chase it. It's great indoor training for hunting and rumbling. I can do awesome pounces, leaps and turns when I get going. I've experimented with various media in the string genre over the years: twine, ribbon, wool... but for weight, flight, claw-ability and chew-ability, you can't go past shoelaces. Long ones.

So that's stringplay. It keeps me sharp and looking fine. And it's wicked fun. Stringplay: try it sometime!
--Pabs

Sign o' the times...

It's a scary world we live in. Scary times. I know that September 11 is the anniversary of some big bad event in the human world (it happened in 2001- I was a youngcat in Liverpool St then, didn't really pay attention to world affairs), but I'd like to use the platform afforded to me by this infamous date to bring another 'sinister force' to your attention...

Cat hate.

The notices to the left of this writing were cowardly and anonymously left on the desk of my houseperson Kate at her office at work. Each was left on a separate occasion. It's obviously calculated cat vilification, aimed at making cats and their people feel threatened and vulnerable. You probably can't see the small print at the bottom of these notices, but each one is attributed to the Dog Defence League and is authorised by 'A. Dog'. In the words of GOB Bluth and Lleyton Hewitt, 'come ON'. 'A. Dog'. As if cats can't see through that. It's just like dogs to come out and slag off cats without being big enough to put their own name to it. As if we're threatened by it. Yawn, Dog Defence League. Yawn, 'A. Dog'. Lame-o. You want to be us, but you can't be us, so you hate us.

Felines and ailurophiles of cyberspace, join me in a large, cat food breath-tinged 'yawn' at the Dog Defence League! Then lick your private parts, turn through 180 degrees and assume a sleeping potition.

Yawn.

--Pabs
P.S. if you don't know who GOB Bluth is, Wikipedia 'Arrested Development'. Rent it on DVD. It rules.

Don't mind doin' it for the kids...

[Me in the jungles of West Hobart, circa 2002]

It seems that this blog has generated a considerable amount of controversy among the cats of Hobart (those with net access, anyway). If you've been reading the comments made on this blog, you'll notice that I've even received some hate mail! Turns out that it was from a little guy called Beto who lives in Sandy Bay. His whiskers were in a bit of a twist because he thought I was copying him by starting this blog. It's all sorted now, though. Poor kid was just jealous of my success. Who could blame him?

Anyway, I've agreed to help him out by plugging his blog here on my site. Happy to help a young up-and-comer join the self-promotion caper. It's quite good, for a kitten. It tells the story of a little guy from the sticks who moves to the big smoke to make something of himself, and features some great photos of Beto as a kitten with his mum and siblings. You can access Beto's blog by clicking the link on the right hand side of my blog. There's some other great cat-related links there, too. Check them out!

[This is a photo of young Beto in his home yard on the NW coast of Tassie. Comparing this photo with the photo of me above, you can see that he's styled himself on me from an early age. Again, who can blame him?]

Cheers,
--Pabs

A tribute to Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter

[This is a photo of me in the jungles of West Hobart that I sent to Steve Irwin to see if he would like to come and collaborate with me on a show about ...me. And the other West Hobart Tigers. But featuring me. Sadly, Steve's death today means that this can never be...]

The West Hobart Tigers dip their ears, whiskers and tails as a mark of respect to Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who died today doing what he loved, filming a nature documentary off the coast of Queensland, Australia. Now, you might not think that 'domestic' cats would have any regard for a naturalist like Steve, and I'm sure he held a very dim view of us, given our 'effects' on the natural environment and endangered species; it's true, we have not always seen eye to eye (a cat's gotta eat, Steve!). However, we acknowledge the contribution Steve made to the protection of animals the world over, especially tigers, our big brothers and sisters who are in a lot of trouble in the world these days. If everyone cared about animals as much as he did, the world would be a kick-ass place. And so, as spokescat for the West Hobart Tigers and Pablo Enterprises, I send my very best purrs to Terri, Bindi Sue and Bob. SFFL players and patrons please note: one minute's yowling will be held at all SFFL matches this weekend in Steve's honour. Cheers.
--Pabs.

New collar

[Photo of me in my old collar at my old house, circa 2002]

Hi. Pabs again.
I got a new collar last week.
Nobody even asked me if I wanted one.
It's not that different from my old collar, so I guess it's no big deal. It's black and shiny. My last one was black and felt a bit like furry skin. Suede, Kate called it. But this one is like leather. I don't think it is leather, though. I don't think that BigW in Kingston sells leather cat collars.

When my housepeople came home with my new collar, they took the old one off me and let me walk around in the nude for a bit. It felt nice, like when I was a kitten. I feel in touch with my wild cat ancestors when I don't have a collar on. It's nice just to be an anonymous cat every now and then. Sometimes it gets very tiring being Pablo, bearing all the responsibilities that being Pablo entails. But that's a story for another time.

I was a bit scared when they brought out the new collar, because it was a ringing collar. I hate ringing collars. Some cats have them, you know. Poor bastards. They can't sneak up on anyone so they can't fight properly and they can't hunt properly... I've instituted a 'no ringing collars' rule for the West Hobart Tigers. It puts some cats out, but we can't lower our standards. You don't see James Hird or Brendan Fevola running around the MCG with a ringing collar, do you?

Anyway, the ringing collar. It scared the kitty litter out of me at first because I thought that there was another cat inside. I looked and looked and sniffed and sniffed around the lounge room, but nothing. Then I saw the ringing collar. I thought I was done for. Skinny Ginge and Graham White would never let me keep on as Captain/Coach of the Tigers if I had a ringing collar. Don't get me wrong, some of my best friends have ringing collars, but I'm just not that kind of cat. Thankfully, Kate knows that, and she took the ring out of the collar before she put it on me, even when Nick begged her to put the ringing collar on me for a little while, 'just to see what I would do'. Pounced on him with my claws out, that's what I would have done.

To cut a long story short, the new collar's ok, though it took a good few days to get my fur nicely arranged around it. Always takes a while to break in a new collar. Black goes well with my stripes, too. Kate put my name tag on the new collar, so everyone knows that I'm Pablo.
And that's the way I like it... most of the time.
Cheers,
Pabs

Don't read this if you can't handle gross things

I vomited today.

Twice. Inside. Under the table.

No one was home.

It looked like (and basically was) liquid cat food, but a bit redder.

Don't worry. I'm not sick or anything. It's just something cats do sometimes. A little vom. Today, I think it was due to a hairball -- no, a bit of hair just caught the wrong way. I'd actually forgotten all about it when Kate discovered it tonight. Lucky Nick wasn't home. He's not so understanding about these things. He would have put me outside.

Like that would have solved anything!

Kate was funny. After she wiped up the solid bits, she put all this food on top of the stain to try and get it out! Rubbed stuff called bran (smelled rank) into the carpet, left it there for a bit, vacuumed it up, wiped vinegar on it (smelled even ranker), poured bicarb on it (didn't smell like anything). Left it there for a bit. Vacuumed again. I think she was trying out stuff she heard about on the cleaning talkback program on the radio. I don't know what any of that stuff is, I just know the names because Kate was talking me through the whole freaking process. Like I cared. It only kind of worked, anyway. You can still see it. I was happy to leave it there. Why bother? It's only vomit. I might've eaten it tomorrow.

Anyway, I hate the vacuum cleaner.
--Pabs

my first post

Hi. My name is Pablo. I'm a six-year-old cat from West Hobart, Tasmania. I've been wanting to do this blogging thing for ages now, but my housepeople (Nick and Kate) are always on the computer... and you wouldn't believe how hard it is to type with paws! So I saved up my pocket money and bought some meow-recognition software, so I'm now finally good to go. It is my vision that this blog becomes a platform for the promotion of my business interests (Pablo Enterprises), my football team (West Hobart Tigers- I'm captain/coach this year) and the general advancement of cat culture and ideology. That's all for now, I'm due for a feed.
Hope it's chicken!
Until next time,
Pablo
(PS big shout out to Blackie, Skinny Ginger, Fat Ginger and Graham White... 'Go forward to kicks the goal, boys!')