Why I am a bad sport (not really)

So there is this contest called Mango Minster. It is run by a dog, but there are some cats there as well, and I suspect they are really the brains behind the show. Anyway, last year two of the idiot dogs in this house entered and did not win. Why would they? No self-respecting cat that is playing a game of shadows with dogs would let two of the most slobbery creatures in existence win. So I decided I would enter myself this year. The cats controlling Mango Minster have wisely decided to let us enter as 'bad sports', preserving the illusion that the dogs are running the show when they are really just chasing their tails. So I will play along and tell you why I am such a bad sport (wink wink).

I'm a bad sport because I have never even tried to be friends with idiot dog 1, idiot dog 2, or supreme idiot dog 3. I would rather just growl and hiss and swat at them if they get within 10 feet of me. I'll tell you why - they have taken over my house. That and they want me dead. One of my favorite things ever is to eat my favorite food - Ocean WhiteFish and Tuna (the pureed kind, not that disgusting gravy stuff). But those stupid slobbery dogs are so frightening that I can't eat with them in the house, and even when they are outside I find it is best to stay near the safety of a bed so I can escape their dumbness if I have to.

This is the only viable option I have

Bunsen may find this acceptable but he is an idiot

... I remember the good old days, when it was just me and mama and those other cats that are beneath me.

I was such an adorable little tyke

The other cats were truly blessed to have me

Mama and I had such a special bond

All that changed one day, when idiot dog 1 came to live with us. At first he was tiny and I thought perhaps he would just live in a box in a closet somewhere. But as he grew older I realized that he had my death on his mind.

I should have known from the start

At first I was OK with being a basement cat. Then we moved to a house where the dogs got into the basement. So I had no other choice. I did what any self-respecting cat with idiot blogging dogs would do.

I took over their blog. There, I said it, and I'm not sorry. Whiskers of Fury was the best thing that ever happened to the internet, and it would've worked too, if not for a twist of fate. I have laid low for awhile, but I decided I would use my winnings from Mango Minster to send the dogs off to Siberia or somewhere, and then order a truckload of Ocean WhiteFish and Tuna to share with myself after my glorious achievement.

If that makes me a bad sport so be it.

Rescue Me #1

So as I have blogged before, I am a rescue hound. Some foolish person decided once that they didn't want me anymore and gave me up for adoption. I went to live with some nicer people, but let's be honest - rescue facilities are way too crowded for hound lifestyle. I was so happy when mama and daddy rescued me, and have been living the good life ever since.

But this time of year I start to think about all those other hounds who are in rescue facilities or who are even luckier and get to live in foster homes. A foster home is better but it isn't the same as a forever home. These poor hounds have no family to love on them or feed them, and no one to play chase with. It was really bothering me all day, despite hours of napping to clear my hound mind.

So I am left with only one option. Dictation! I dictated to daddy that we should start a new tradition. Rosco has his Famous Basset Hound Friday, and the stupid cats get TWO traditions. It doesn't seem fair that us hounds only get one - it isn't called WHISKERS of Fury, no matter what McBoobs says.

He agreed with me, saying it was very selfless of me to want to help other hounds. He also said something about toning down the negativity on the cats, but I tune out any comments that have to do with those stupid hairballs. Anyway, this is our first entry in a new segment here at Jowls of Fury that we are calling 'Rescue Me'. In it, I will highlight a different basset hound rescue organization each week, giving some details about them and maybe mentioning a few hounds at their foster homes. I will also let you know if they do any rescue events like a waddle.

So our first rescue organization is the Michigan Basset Rescue. Their claim to fame is that they host the 'Original Basset Waddle'. Hey what a coincidence! We go to a waddle of our own. Looking at their site I see the Michigan waddle is in the spring while our waddle is in the fall.

We could do two waddles in one year! Dictation!

But as you can see from their website, they do lots of other things. They sell basset hound gifts, including a really cool cookbook written by basset chef de Hungry Hound. A few of their current hounds are awfully handsome, including Mr. Duke (an older basset gentleman who will eat anything - a hound after my own heart). So if you happen to live in Michigan or want to drive a long way to give a hound a forever home, check out Michigan Basset Rescue.

Oh yeah and here is their mascot!

Triumphant Return Thursday

Good news loyal blog followers! We're back!

Yes, we were down for awhile there. The cats removed our ability to blog by unplugging our internet. We had all kinds of blogs typed up about stupid fat cats, famous basset hounds, and fun walks. Then they pulled the plug on us. We were so lost! Rosco tried to get back upstairs and plug things back in, but his paws were too big and he was smacked in the snout by McBoobs. Dad won't let us chase the cats for too long so we were all herded back downstairs without internet.

Clearly the cats planned their takeover well. Most of our days we spend in our crates while dad works, and the cats have free reign of things. He didn't realize how the cats had tricked us, since he's been so busy lately. Our thoughts were pretty low during that time - Breezy cried a lot and Rosco just wasn't his usual self. I was feeling pretty sad myself. Then I hatched a plan.

I knew our basset friends would be worried about us, and I got the feeling that they were rooting for us. Plus I knew that McBoobs is really terrified of me, and that he was the glue that held those silly cats together. So our task was pretty simple: catch him alone and bark at him until he ran away and hid under the bed.

We finally got our chance today. When dad came home, he let us out to go potty. We did what we had to do, and when we came back in, I waited to eat my dinner until I had figured out where Nibbler was. I had only a moment's chance and I took it - I ran after him and watched his McBoobs flop from side to side, scaring him under the bed. I barked at him really good and he whimpered and whined for a bit, then stayed under the farthest part of the bed. I went in by the internet and plugged it back in, then growled at him to remind him who was boss.

My dinner kibble has never tasted so good.

Anyway, we chased all the cats for awhile to reinforce the fact that the dogs are running the show again. A few of them are under beds or up on shelves, but we left Korbin alone because he got Rosco some votes for his photo contest.

Whiskers of Fury is no more, and Jowls of Fury is back!

That's more like it!

Weird Word Wednesday # 13

It's nice to finally be worshiped the way I deserve, without having to plan my sermons around dog schedules! This Whiskers of Fury thing has been wonderful. Now if we could figure out a way to give the dogs to a rescue shelter so we could rule the basement as well, our lives would be perfect.

Speaking of the dogs, they are our topic for this week's weird word. The word 'basset' is sort of a strange name for a dog - a basset is something you put a baby in, and a basset hound is a long droopy dog. Although they certainly act like big babies - whining and crying all the time, drooling all over themselves, wrecking things, taking up too much of our mama's time. So maybe the name is perfect.

If you read in the dictionary you will discover that the word basset is French for 'low'. While they certainly are low, I don't care what the French word for anything is. I make my own words for reality, and I just call them 'stupid dogs'.

Whiskers of Fury is not the utopia we all hoped for

When I joined this resistance movement I thought we would all be a nonviolent protest organization that would overwhelm our dog counterparts with citizen unrest and group singing sessions. I did not plan on being the target of nightly showcases of cat bigotry and warmongering, and I wouldn't have signed on if I'd known this right-wing outcome would come to be. I was lured into this deal with promises of the finest catnip and cushy pillows to sleep on, and assurances that the dogs would only be mocked from afar once or twice a week. Nibbler does it every night and he tries to swat them while they are sleeping.

Nibbler is a liar, a coward, and a cheat. He always runs from Oliver during Cathalla (which is stupid in and of itself, and also violent). Also, he is pompous and doesn't carry his fair share. Even with his massive, pendulous man-cat-boobs (I like to call them McBoobs). Then he saunters up to mama when she comes home and plays the loveable little kitten role, like there ever was a 20-pound kitten in the world that wasn't a tiger.

I honestly feel sort of sorry for the dogs. Sure, they chase us sometimes, but to be fair we chase each other and mice and all sorts of smaller stuff. Moths in particular are a lot of fun to chase. Does that make the chaser evil? No, it makes the chaser a cat, and a particularly good one if they actually catch what they are chasing (clue: Nibbler doesn't even try to chase anymore. McBoobs make pursuit a little difficult).  Rosco is trying to win a contest (click the link here), so maybe if we all helped him out it might lift his spirits a little (you have to go on Facebook, and then like the site it takes you to, and finally like Rosco's picture to vote for him).

Whiskers of Fury is a sham.

We are not comrades.

Cathalla

You have probably heard of Valhalla. It is the Norse mythology's Hall of the Dead, where slain heroes fight battles endlessly, and the vanquished rise again and again to fight. We have something similar here. We call it 'The Hallway Upstairs', or simply, 'Cathalla'.

Lord Nibbler inspecting the battlefield, and the remains of the vanquished

We fight there nightly. We have that prerogative as Cat Overlords.

That's me on the right. The awesome one.

I'm the undisputed King of Cathalla, and have reigned supreme every night since we left the Place of Stone Basement to come to this Place of Carpet Basement. Every night I challenge a cat of my choosing, and growl at them fiercely until they make the first move. In this fashion I am able to determine their weakness, and allow them to get a few attacks in before I exploit it and send them running. My shrieks of fury and anger are enough to frighten them, and my razor claws and viselike bite really drive the point home.

However the shrieks can't be too loud or they wake dad up, and he thunders upstairs like a demon and hurls decorative pillows in my general direction. It also does not pay to try and do the Cathalla thing in the bedroom, as it typically gets you launched out into the hallway.

All the cats in the house fear me, and a couple of the dogs do, too. They're not as dumb as they look.

King of Cathalla forever!

Stupid TV Commercial Sunday # 19

Now that we cats have taken over and renamed 'Jowls of Fury' to its rightful name (WHISKERS OF FURY FOREVER), it's high time we revisited one of the worst commercials in existence.

That's right. We're going back to the Beggin Strips commercial again. Only this time, we are going to make fun of the new commercial.

OK, so first we have the dumbest dog breed in existence: the golden retriever. We have a dog cousin named Griff who is one of these, and let me tell you, I have coughed up hairballs that had higher IQ.

Next in line is the bulldog. A more appropriate name would be the fartdog.

Then we have the basset hound, which is silly-looking and lazy no matter WHAT the dogs on this blog tell you.

Followed by a poodle, or maybe a couple of Q-Tips taped together and voice-dubbed.

Then a corgi? It's hard to tell... such a short animal...

I don't know what kind of dogs were running from the Taj Mahal but we can assume they are dumb. Following them were a bunch of Shih Tzus, which have obscene-sounding names.

Anyway, none of these dogs deserve bacon as much as we cats do.

We interrupt this slobberfest

To bring you breaking news of most importance.

Famous basset hound Friday has been cancelled indefinitely! I, the Overlord of Cat Palace, have ruined the weekly event forever!

I realized yesterday as I lounged in my upstairs throne that I had the power to get even with my dog foes permanently. All I had to do was remove their ability to blog! This was easily done, as I removed the router plug from the wall. I could hear their whimpering and whining as they tap-tap-tapped their way through their blog entry, only to discover that I, Lord Nibbler, had canceled their plans. I laughed to myself in my rich, baritone feline voice, as I imagined the new title for this blog.

"Whiskers of Fury"

Impressive, right? Those hounds won't know what hit them! We'll see who gets all the fans on Facebook now!

Mwahahahahaha!

Kneel before Nibbler!