Recently in Sir Orange FlaggyTail Category

...with no prominent facial features: Sir Orange FlaggyTail has been tested and found guilty of the following traits (bold emphasis mine):

neat freak, organized, worrying, phobic, fears the unknown, irritable, pessimistic, emotionally sensitive, fears chaos, risk averse, fragile, unadventurous, depressed, frequently second guesses self, likes to fit in, does not like to stand out, perfectionist, hard working, does not like to be alone, clingy, dependent, practical, ordinary, cautious, takes precautions, good at saving money, suspicious, heart over mind, busy, altruistic

Stability results were moderately low which suggests you are worrying, insecure, emotional, and anxious.

Orderliness results were high which suggests you are overly organized, reliable, neat, and hard working at the expense too often of flexibility, efficiency, spontaneity, and fun.

Extraversion results were moderately low which suggests you are reclusive, quiet, unassertive, and secretive.

"I don't believe the hardworking part for a second," said Mr. Teen.

If he only knew who licks his dishes clean when he's at school, Mr. Teen might not be so dismissive.

Sir Orange FlaggyTail is resting peacefully in his warm basket. "Mrr muff mff mahh" he sighs, curling his pliant body into a circle.

It's quiet here. His ears aren't raised and alert, tuning into any potential sudden danger. It's one of those drowsy Sundays when everything is so still you'd think syrup was in the air.

You see, PantherGirl has left the building. No more PantherGirl. "Mee hee hee!" she cried confused, when pushed into her box and carried away to live in a different part of Cambridge this morning. No more flying blackness landing on Sir OrangeFlaggyTail's back, biting his balls, slapping his tail. No more sitting in the window together, looking at the world.

Does he know this?

I'm not sure. For now, he isn't missing anyone, he's just sleeping silently, taking the quiet nap he so justly deserves.

Bye, PantherGirl:-(

Sir Orange FlaggyTail had a delicious morning.

Being big and mean is productive. Here is the evidence. (quicktime movie)

It is an extraordinary boring Sunday over here. Drowsy. Perhaps it is cold outside: our street is suspiciously quiet. Even Sherry Turtle (the kitten terror) is sleepy, she curls up next to me and lets out a sleepy purr.

Thank Godness I think to myself - at least now I can move around in the house with no panther attack of any kind. I get up and walk to the bathroom. Within a few weeks of residency, and wilder than any kitten we've seen, Miss Turtle has turned our apartment into vivid chaos. Sir Orange FlaggyTail, slightly pissed off at all the ado, has given up on parenting the crazy creature: tattle-telling seems to work better.

"Mrrrriaw! Mriaow! Mriaaaaow!" he brumbles with a dark, deep voice when Sherry Turtle swings high in electrical wires, climbs curtains and bookshelves, takes a swim in the toilet, or eats his food. He won't stop until the problem is taken care of, by US, of course. Chances are, you see, that S.O.F.T. will be attacked by this mini panther if he gives her a smack for the mischief. A bit too fat too fat to keep up with her fighting skills, are we?

But the sleep ball moved with me into the bathroom. One small lump is peacefully resting on the floor mat when I'm done brushing my teeth. I carefully sneak around her on my way to the room in the back, not to wake her.

Oh! Here, my desk is covered in laundry. How did that happen? Too many clothes to fold. I decide to escape before I feel like I should clean it all up, but stumble over no other than Sherry Turtle, asleep, at my feet as I turn. "Will you stop it, cat? I'd hate to step on you!" I moan, and move her to a safe pillow.

In the living-room, there has been ongoing hacking this weekend. The old pc shines with a new Linux foundation: Mr. Teen with pride. Apparently a new mouse, a new keyboard, and more ram is desperately needed, if I was to show my serious interest in his well being and further educational development, he informs me. Perhaps I better leave before he adds the broken Playstation controller to the list?

I make a quick turn in the middle of Mr. Teens list of wants, almost crushing, you guessed it, no other than Sherry Turtle. Miaaooo... she cries, unhappy. Is there no way to sleep next to someone in this house? "She wants crepes" says Mr. Teen, changing the topic, realizing his list is too long. "Are you hungry?" I ask him. He nods.

We wrap Sherry Turtle in a sling to get her off our feet, and begin the crepe process. Peeping into the batter, she shouts "This... this is kind of interesting over here," to S.O.F.T, who is left down there at the floor, all lonely. Cutting right to the case, "Is it lickable?" he wants to know.

So we wrap Sir Orange FlaggyTail into the sling too, but just as he settles in, he spots the floor down there and suddenly remembers being afraid of heights. Panicky, round eyes stares at Mr. Teen who captures the event with a camera.

Where did this thing come from? His ears were raised, sharply, as he studied her little, wild and wavering tail. Silently, she stared back. We were watching, breathlessly. Two tails made rapid, thin cuts in the dense air.

Kind of Big, she seemed to think, not too worried though, perhaps not even worried at all. Orange, I see? I have some orange spots, too. S.O.F.T. tilted carefully forward, but suddenly changed his mind. A soft bump sounded; his butt hit the floor sooner than the thought as he leaned back.

Mraaa? She hinted, breaking the ice, still sitting tranquil in front of him. No response. Narrow eyes glimpsed half-heartedly at him while she began grooming her paw, delicately. We women knew there was nothing half-heartedly about her licks.

He sniffed at her, eyes big like stones, round, curious and alert, almost as if he had just spotted an alien of some sort. Yet, it was evident that he felt some sorts of connection to this creature. Where did she come from..? He examined me for a brief second, then turned back to her.

She read his cues like a pro, stretching a clean, smooth paw towards him. Sliding by carefully, letting out a little purr, her tail curled up towards his nose, offering a ladylike nudge.

The warmth of her greeting surely meant: "You're in charge, Sir Orange FlaggyTail!" He turned to me for reassurance. She needs me, right?

"She's a baby cat," Mr. Teen explained. S.O.F.T. blinked at this a few times, then bent down towards the baby cat: Ah. Well, for starters, Silly, here is how you lick, he demonstrated, giving her a wash. In that moment, our Daddy Cat was born.

Sir Orange FlaggyTail, or SOFT for short, is getting somewhat fat. "Mrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaya" he begs, returning from the basement where the curmudgeon coach-roach lives. Some pebbles of kitty food as a side dish to the rat he just finished off would not be a bad idea. "NO", I tell him, pointing to his belly.

SOFT turns his back at me and parades on into the next room, where he parks his butt on the floor while a long tail carefully wraps around his belly. His eyes narrows and there is a soft purr from the sides of his whiskers. "NO" says Mr. Teen, pointing to me in the other room. SOFT slaps his tail at the floor, letting down his belly with awhiff. No need to pretend here.

Now the pacing begins: Kitchen. Bathroom. Bedroom. Kitchen. Living room. Kitchen. Hall. Basement. Then quiet.

"Miau?" he greets me from the door, suddenly. His four paws swiftly touches the wooden floor before he leaps into my bed and gives me a nudge: "Mrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaya!"

Sir Orange FlaggyTail must have been watching Sliding Doors again.

It was one of those uneventful day of our lives. Grey and dull, it just happen to sneak upon us when we least expected it. Boredom lulled the three of us into idleness: In particular, this was true of the one with the tail.

For this one was purring softly. In the deepest of his dream, The Terribly Unattainable Curmudgeon Coach-roach roared from the basement, locked between some eager, sharpened claws.

Suddenly, a sound.

Dreams where shattered: Real action was now called for.

Mr. 12 was standing in the doorway, two chiffon ribbons wavering wildly from his hands.

This motion was not be taken lightly. An orange tabby tail flagged high as the ship left his safe harbor (although the Captain surely did not intend to call upon himself unwanted attention).

From a distance, this had seemed an easy match: The enemy now fought a wealth of strength.

Quick movements were utilized. This strategy, sadly, did not pan out as planned: The enemy was e v e r y where. Escape!

Or, perhaps, upon reflection, why not just accept one's fate.

But Mr. 12 had pure and good intentions:"I hereby squire you Sir Orange FlaggyTail!" he exlaimed excitedly! A decoration was the cat awarded, and a decent name, at last.

Sir Orange FlaggyTail! murmured the no longer nameless, swaying his tail, leaving the battle with punctured pride and dragging chiffony strands of decorations along his new route. Somewhere from the basement, a coach-roach laughed hysterically.

At the end of a every year, Mr. 12's school spends a delightful day at Crane's beach. This event, time over, has proven to be quite exhausting to someone who picture himself as the indoorsy, masterful computer gamer kind of guy. Coming home, a trail of sand from dirty sandals at the floor lead me straight to the sofa, where one big heap of almost teenager had collapsed.

The new old cat, stretched out next to him, greeted me with a soft hush - don't wake him! but mothers are strange that way. In one moment they tell you to go to bed, NOW, but when you finally do, they tell you to get up, NOW. Apparently there is no logic to it. Mr. 12 opened an eye, protesting, while the cat was licking away something that might once have been lunch from his arm.

"Oh, don't be a drowsy cat, like that hungry phungry sleepy one!" I exclaimed, pulling Mr. 12 away from the cat. Deprived of his meal, the Orange TabbyCat Highness decided to make one giant leap and vanish from the sofa. "Mamma!" Mr. 12 moaned, rolling his eyes, but there was no mercy. "I can't believe there is no more spunk in you today" I sang, taking a fighter's pose with my arms high up in defence. This, at last, got Mr. 12 moving. Raising his own hands, he reminded me with a friendly but stern voice that he is after all, a male, and I am not only a female, but a mum, so I've got twice the reason not to be brave, really. Should I not reconsider?

As if! Mums always win. Mr. 12 just doesn't understand this yet, still subscribing to Popper's method of falsification. To prove him wrong, I struck the most scary and threatening pose I could imagine, but this did nothing good - it cracked him up. Laughing out load, he took a step backwards while his hands protected his stomach - but suddenly, the smile went all flat and his eyes opened wide in horror. "Iiiiikkkkkkkkrrrrrkkk" Mr. 12 cried, looking down at his foot; solidly planted in BTGMHBCP, a common household term for Big Time Grey and Muddy Hair Ballsy Cat Puke. Who knows. There might even have been some rat in there.

There was nothing to do but to take advantage of the situation. When in doubt, act fast and try to win: Claim victory before something else can go wrong. "See what happens when you don't take your mum seriously?" I lectured.

Mr. 12 had other things to worry about. Not listening, he limped around me towards to the bathroom. Feeling a tad guilty after all, I filled the tub with water and patted him gently on his shoulder, just in case he should need some love. But Mr. 12 began to laugh. Grabbing my arm, he pointed through the door and at the cat, now quietly observing us from the hallway, dashing his tail at the wall. "That is one, big fat cat smile, I swear" insisted Mr. 12.