November 25, 2013 1:44 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

It has not gone unnoticed that I am completely without suitable material for my Tinker-Tatters decor AND my Tinker-Tissue Toys.  I have been unable to secure a single dirty kleenex, roll of toilet paper, paper towel, paper bag or piece of tissue paper in the last week.  I know you are hiding them.  This is unacceptable.

You will tell me where they are located immediately or I shall begin shredding the mail.  I am not above using Tinker-Torture to secure this information.  I am sharpening my Tinker-Talons.  And waiting.

Speaking of Tinker-Torture, please tell Strange Man to stop trying to teach me this thing called "Patty Cake."  It is a ridiculous game, and anyone who would make a cake out of someone named Patty is seriously disturbed.

-Tink

November 15, 2013 6:21 a.m.

Dear Tink:

This morning, I was awakened at 6:02 a.m. (far too early for a woman who does not have to go to work), by the sound of you digging in my purse. You quickly pulled out a dirty kleenex (I'm not proud) and began chewing it up. This is a disgusting habit. Far more disgusting than me keeping dirty kleenex in my purse.

After taking said kleenex away from you, and putting it in the zipped portion of my purse (again, I'm not proud, but I was sleepy and the trash can was an entire room away), I attempted to go back to sleep. I immediately heard the sound of more digging. When I looked down, you had extracted from my purse yet another dirty kleenex. I sighed in exasperation, grabbed my purse and began searching it for dirty kleenex. I removed all the dirty kleenex from my purse (seriously, there weren't that many), and threw them away.

When I came back into the room, I discovered you playing. With another dirty kleenex. WHERE ARE YOU FINDING THESE THINGS?? And more importantly, WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH THEM???

At this point, I can only assume you are manifesting them yourself. And if you are capable of manifesting things, please start manifesting your own food and water. And someone to clean your litter box. And Hugh Jackman. If you can get Hugh Jackman to clean your litter box, well I guess that's one less thing.

Although you seem to prefer dirty kleenex, I did also find you with your head in the kleenex box last night. I can only assume you were attempting to pull the unused kleenex from the box. This is obviously some sort of karmic payback, as I used to do the same thing to my mother when I was a baby. So I suppose I can't be mad at you for that, as karma is, in fact, a bitch.

But you really do need to stop with the dirty ones. It is gross.

And please stop chewing up my shoes. That is something dogs do. It is beneath you.

You are about to be in Tinker-Trouble.

-Woman Who Feeds You (And is Tired of Cleaning Up the Dirty Kleenex)

November 8, 2013 2:26 a.m.

Dear Tink:

There seems to be some confusion regarding the rules of the household. For clarification, here is a list of places you are not allowed to occupy. And don't try to deny it. I have found you in every one of these places in the last week.

The kitchen table
The kitchen counter
The dining room table
The kitchen trash can
The bathroom trash can
The top of the pile of clean laundry
(dirty laundry is acceptable, though you seem to have no interest in it)
Snowball's bed while Snowball is in it
Penny's box while Penny is in it
Pumpkin's head
The dishwasher
The refrigerator
My purse
The lap of anyone sitting on the toilet
The toilet
The inside of the piano
The top of the curtains
The planter
My dinner plate
My water glass
The top of the coffee maker
Strange Man's coffee cup

The ceiling fan blades are also off limits. Though I have not yet found you up there, I've seen how you look at them. Don't even try it.

I have managed to make it to age 41 without ever being responsible for a two-year-old. I do not now intend to be held hostage by a Tinker-Toddler.

Sincerely,
Woman Who Feeds You

P.S.  To Hugh Jackman (who reads this blog religiously) - these rules do not apply to you.  I will also send you a private message containing a list of other areas you are allowed and encouraged to occupy.

November 1, 2013 11:31 a.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Yesterday, you encouraged me to stop knocking things over.  You suggested that perhaps the other kitties are so mean to me because they are jealous of my KnockOver super-powers.  Though this does seem likely, I must decline.  I cannot help it if I am better than everyone else.

I have discovered another equally satisfying activity, though.  Interior decorating.  As I am sure you aware, this house needs some serious cosmetic work.  Today, I began redecorating the foyer.  I am using my new designer collection, which I call "Tinker-Tatters."  It consists of shredded toilet paper and paper towels.  I have now completed the stairs and most of the foyer.

Tomorrow, I will work on the Library.  Please provide me with several more rolls of material, as I am already out.

You're welcome.

-Tink

October 30, 2013 3:53 a.m.

I have been placed in solitary confinement again for biting Angry Cat.

I still contend that the only reason Woman Who Feeds Me freaked out about this is that Angry Cat is white, and therefore the blood that was all over her was much more visible. When it comes to biting, Woman Who Feeds Me is so racist. I guess it will take time before the violence between the white cats and the Irish cats is finally eradicated. I plan to squeeze in as much violence as possible toward Angry Cat until that happens.

I just can't help it. Angry Cat irritates me. First, they call her "Snowball." What kind of stupid name is that? For a long time, I was utterly perplexed at this choice of name for Angry Cat. But then I remembered that when snowballs hit me, they do make me very angry. So I guess it might be a good name for her. Though it's a fairly labored metaphor. I doubt Woman Who Feeds Me is smart enough to have figured it out.

Then, she is constantly crying for food, even though she is rapidly approaching the size of Darth Fatty Fat Fatterson. And she always wants into the living room. Her method of attempting to access said room is to somersault her huge body into the door. This has never, ever worked. Though it does succeed in freaking out Woman Who Feeds Me. She thinks someone is in the house, knocking at the door. She watches too many horror movies. Just the other night she watched one called "Hotel for Dogs." It was terrifying and gave me nightmares.

I can't believe she let the children watch it. I guess there's a reason they call her The Wicked Step-Mother. As I have been locked in "the tower," I think I shall start calling her that, too. If she gives me an apple, please remind me not to eat it.

-Tink

October 22, 2013 5:12 a.m.

Dear Tink -

I wish to put you on official notice that my vanilla-scented Chapstick is for my benefit - not yours.

Attempting to lick it off my lips in the middle of the night is not acceptable.  Chewing on my earlobes is also forbidden.

Please stop.

-Woman Who Feeds You

P.S.  Hugh Jackman - as you surely read this blog, please note that these rules do not apply to you.

October 20, 2013 3:19 p.m.

Welcome to this week's issue of The KnockOver Report.

This week's KnockOver activity far surpassed any I have ever achieved.  KnockOvers included:

 - One large stack of video games that clearly should have been put away by the children

-  One phone, sadly undamaged

-  One large, metal lunch box (what a delightful sound!)

- One bottle of pills, which I'm proud to say, I knocked directly out of the hands of Woman Who Feeds Me.  She screeched, and pills went everywhere.  I had a great time scattering them further out of her reach.  Unfortunately, she was able to rescue them all before I had a chance to sample any.

I'm sorry to report that the large cat called Pumpkin (Darth Fatty Fat Fatterson) still exceeds me in KnockOver ability.  Yesterday, she successfully knocked the silver candlesticks off the mantel without even using her paws.  She simply tried to walk behind them.  I can learn much from this one.

October 16, 2013 10:35 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

I was a fool ever to return to this place.  I do not know what I was thinking. I have begun planning my next escape attempt.

While watching television through the pocket doors last night, I got an idea.  It will require a small rock hammer and a poster of Rita Hayworth.  I just need to find a cat who "knows how to get things."

I will keep you posted on my efforts.

-Tink

October 14, 2013 2:27 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

I am overjoyed (mostly) to report that yesterday, my escape attempts finally proved successful!!  I cannot thank you enough for your support in this endeavor.

Unfortunately, things did not go exactly as I had hoped.

I wish I could say I carefully planned my escape.  But in truth, I merely seized upon a sudden and unexpected opportunity:  the open door.

Woman Who Feeds Me got sloppy and made a mistake.  I suspected this might happen, but I had no idea how stupid she would be.  While opening the front door to the prison, she left it wide upon for a fraction of a second.  I wasted no time.  Sprinting through the open door and darting past her feet, I ran as fast as my little paws would go.  Then I smelled the sweet scent of freedom.  And car exhaust.

I coughed heavily as I ran through the cloud of toxic fumes coming out of the metal menace, but I was determined to find a hiding place. I quickly dashed under a bush and then through a fence.  I could hear Woman Who Feeds Me screaming my name, but I soon left the highly irritating sound of her voice behind, and it was then that I knew - I was truly free.

I stopped and looked around, taking in the view of beautiful grass and flowers, trees and shrubs.  And then - a squirrel!  My instincts took over, and I darted after it - chasing it for what must have been miles. To my dismay, it averted me by climbing a tree.  I tried to follow, but my tree climbing skills have suffered since my incarceration.  I sat for what felt like an eternity waiting for it to come back down, but it must have sensed my superiority and resigned itself to stay put.  I grew bored, and decided to reward myself for my brilliant escape with a well-deserved nap.

I found a sunny spot and closed my eyes.  It was heavenly.  I awakened some time later to find a large bug staring at me.  Terror!  Its eyes were enormous!  I bolted away and quickly felt something damp on my paws.  A mud puddle!  Oh glorious fun!  I played and played - splashing and pouncing in the puddle.  It was wet and filthy and wonderful! 

When I had finally exhausted all the joy from the mud, I realized I was soaking wet. And quite cold.  I began to shiver.  Oh no!  How would I ever get warm again?  Where would I go? I wandered and wandered - looking for any place safe and warm where I could recover.  But there was no shelter in sight.  I began to miss the warmth of my cell.  The soft padded cushions on which I had slept felt miles away. 

My stomach growled in protest.  Oh no!  Freezing AND hungry?  I would surely be dead in minutes.  I thought of Woman Who Feeds Me.  Or Fed me, at least.  She would never bring me food again.  Oh, how I longed to see her feet as she poured that delectable substance into my bowl.   And then cradled me in her arms and stroked my head.  I actually missed her.

I knew instantly.  I had to return.   But where was she? How could I ever find her? I looked around for something familiar.  I closed my eyes and tried to smell her.  Nothing. I perked up my ears for the grating sound of her voice.  I began to hear my name.  "Tinker!  TINK!"  But from which direction??  She could be anywhere.

It was then that I felt the small tug inside me.  Instinct.  The same feeling I had experienced when I first saw the squirrel.  But this was different.  It carried with it a single word.  Home.  I began to follow it. 

I must have wandered for hundreds of miles, but eventually, I saw the familiar porch from which I had so foolishly run.  Exhausted and near starvation, I crawled up the steps, crying furiously for someone to rescue me.  Hours later, Woman Who Feeds Me appeared at the door.  She seemed so relieved.  She quickly scooped me up and carried me inside.

"Oh Tink!" she exclaimed.  "Thank goodness you're okay!  It's dangerous out there!"

I was too tired to agree, so I simply purred to let her know I was happy to see her.

"I was so worried about you!  You were gone for almost 10 minutes!"

October 9, 2013 7:44 p.m.

Dear Tinker:


There is no monster stalking you.  That is your tail.


And you aren't Irish.


-Woman Who Feeds You

Tinkertainment 7.0

Tink vs. Doctor Whoot

Tink attempts to secure protection from the United States Marine Corps.
Or at least their shirts.

October 8, 2013 4:49 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

I am told there has been much lamenting about the recent lack of posts.  As a black cat nearing Halloween, I wish I had a less humiliating excuse; but the truth is, for the last few weeks, I have been frozen with terror.

I have suspected for some time now that I am not alone in the Library-Cell. My fears have proven to be well founded.  There is something here.  I must whisper to avoid waking it.

I have not seen the creature directly.  I have only caught glimpses off it out of the corner of my eye. It stalks me from the shadows.  Watching.  Waiting. Planning its attack at the moment I least expect - often as I am drifting off to sleep.  Then - it strikes!  In my peripheral vision, I spot it.  It is black and wispy and terrifying.  It hovers behind me - gripping me with fear - until finally, it vanishes.  In a moment of shear desperation, I attempted to pounce on it once.  Despite my exemplary pouncing skills, I was unable to catch it.  I confess, I am grateful for that now.

I have been unable to close my eyes for more than a few moments. Thankfully, Woman Who Feeds Me must have sensed my fear.  She was kind enough to sleep in the room with me last night.  I waited for her to lie down, and then stretched myself across her throat.  I determined that this was the ideal position, as I would be able to quickly wake her if the beast attacked.  I must confess, also, that my new found affection for her prompted me to protect her from possible strangulation.  Plus, if the beast eats her, she will be unable to protect me.

Somehow, we survived the night.  For now, the hideous monster seems content to bask in the delightful glow of my terror.  I fear it will eventually grow tired of toying with me.  This may be my last post.

-Tink

September 30, 2013 2:31 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

I apologize that I have not posted in many days.  I was placed in solitary confinement this weekend.  It was absolute hell.  The torment of being left alone for 30 straight hours was nearly unbearable.  I am certain that I came very close to death.  I cannot describe my joy and relief at finally being able to converse with you again.  I was almost sure you had read my last words.

Although Woman Who Feeds Me left me plenty of food, water and toys - no one came to pay attention to me.  I cannot imagine a worse fate.  My tiny throat aches from the violence of my cries for affection.  I do not know what behavior justified this hellish form of imprisonment, but I must remember to apologize for it when Woman Who Feeds Me returns.

As if this punishment was not sufficiently sadistic, I was also cruelly tortured by the removal of several items I wished to include in this week's KnockOver Report. Two of the larger photographs went missing, as well as the beautifully breakable oil lamp that was undoubtedly filled with tempting, flavorful, and poisonous liquid.  How could they deprive me of the sweet satisfaction of causing its destruction?!  This surely constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.

I suspect Strange Man is behind it. 

I must attempt to be on my best behavior today.  That shouldn't be too diffi .... HEY!  THE DOOR IS OPEN!  I MUST LAUNCH MY ATTACK ON THE FOYER FELINES!!

Back Soon.

-Tink

September 30, 2103  2:39 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

I think I have discovered a flaw in my plan.

-Tink

September 27, 2013 10:00 p.m.

Welcome to today's installment of The KnockOver Report.

Today was a very successful KnockOver day.  I decided to focus all my efforts on the piano.  This is in protest of the fact that the lid has been closed and the keys denied to me ever since the debut of my most recent composition: Eine Kleine Tinkmusik.

This morning, I managed to topple a picture of Strange Man's parents, as well as a stack of something Woman Who Feeds Me calls "sheet music."  Later in the day, I attempted to knock over the piano light. It proved a bit too heavy for me, but I will not rest until gravity has consumed it.

Tomorrow, I will try for the oil lamp on the mantle.  It is shiny and filled with curious liquid, and it will surely make a very satisfying sound when it hits the floor.  The images of its inevitable descent will surely haunt my dreams tonight.

Soon, dear oil lamp.  Soon.

-Tink

September 27, 2013 3:43 p.m.

Dear Tink:

Today I acquiesced in your demands to be released from the library.  My intention was to allow you one hour in which to interact with the bigger kitties, provided you were on your best behavior.

Your initial action upon being released was to chase Snowball up the stairs.  Fifteen seconds later, you returned with a chunk of white fur in your mouth.

Apparently, we need to revisit our conversation on "Making Friends."

Lesson One:  Don't Be A Dick

Until you have mastered Lesson One, you are confined to your cell.

With regret,
-Woman Who Feeds You

September 26, 2013 7:58 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

I was happy to see that Woman Who Feeds Me was back today.  I do not care for Strange Man.  I will claw his eyes if he comes back.

Unfortunately, Woman Who Feeds Me has begun to overstay her welcome.  I want her to play with me for exactly 7 1/2 minutes.  After that, she needs to leave.  In order to encourage this behavior, I have begun biting her at the appropriate time.  Thankfully, she seems to be getting the message and has started leaving as soon as I bite her.

But I must be relentless if she is to learn this lesson.

-Tink

September 26, 2013 7:54 p.m.

Dear Loyal Followers of Tink:

Recently, I have noticed that Tink has become a bit "bitey."  I am concerned that she is going to hurt the children.  Okay, I'm also concerned that she is going to hurt me (she bites really hard!)

In order to combat this, I have started leaving the room as soon as she starts biting.  Hopefully this will teach her that biting gets her no attention.

But I must be relentless if she is to learn this lesson.

Please encourage her to stop.

-Woman Who Feeds Tink

September 25, 2013 11:16 a.m.

Dear Loyal Followers:

There has been a disturbing aberration in the feeding schedule.  Yesterday, Woman Who Feeds Me did not come.  Instead, she was replaced by Strange Man.

Strange Man uttered something about "Mom had a medical procedure and can't play with you today."

The only word I understood was "play," so I assumed that was why he was here.  I proceeded to launch a play attack at his face.  This did not go over well.

I hope Woman Who Feeds Me will be back tomorrow.  I am growing strangely fond of her.

-Tink

September 22, 2013 2:15 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

My letters to you are not having the desired effect.  In fact, it appears you are ignoring them entirely. You clearly do not realize that I have garnered the support of literally tens of people on the internet. Perhaps if I speak directly to my loyal followers, they will lobby for my release.

Dear Loyal Followers:

Today I was once again permitted to take a walk in the foyer and interact with the bigger kitties.  I assume this was a reward for good behavior.  After all, I did give the humans one entire screech-free hour last night.  One of my followers (Wendy) has posed an intriguing hypothesis about the bigger cats (whom I call the "foyer felines") (which is also a great name for a band.)  Wendy believes that the foyer felines may actually be the wardens of the penitentiary, and not fellow inmates, as I previously suspected.  I am still exploring this possibility, but it would certainly explain their attitude towards me.

The large grey one was more hospitable today, and even helped me to chase the hamster on a string that frequently appears when the humans are around.  We were unsuccessful in capturing it, but I am confident that we at least wore it out.  

The grey cat (called "Pumpkin" by the humans) continues to assert that her real name is Darth Feline. This name seems entirely wrong for her, so I have tried to convince her to adopt a new one. She resists, insisting that she already has three names, and "this isn't a Tolkein novel."

After today's hamster chase, I suggested that she call herself "Darth Fatty Fat Fatterson."  For some reason, she was adamantly opposed to the idea.  She even went so far as to illustrate her opinion by attempting to bite me.  I can see that her propensity for violence is going to be a problem.  

The white cat (called "Snowball" by the humans) still will not tell me her name.  For now, I will just call her "Angry Cat." I attempted to greet her with an even greater display of enthusiasm - jumping directly onto her head. She responded by darting under the claw-foot bathtub and growling in a fit of fear and self-pity.  I think it is safe to say that she does not like me.  The feeling is rapidly becoming mutual.  

Perhaps there is a language barrier.  If any of my followers could suggest other ways I might try to interact with Angry Cat, I am open to suggestion.  

Thank you for your continued support and encouragement during my incarceration.

-Tink

September 21, 2013 4:09 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Today I managed to escape The Library just long enough to meet some of the other inmates:  the large one (aptly named "Pumpkin") and the white one (also aptly named "Snowball.)  Or so you call them. They have assured me these are NOT their names.

I am unsure why you were unable to discover their true names, as you did quite well ascertaining mine. (I realize that sounded vaguely like a compliment.  Don't get used to it.  The recognition of your achievement in this matter in no way changes the nature of our relationship, nor does it establish any kind precedent.  In fact, I should actually be giving myself credit for effectively communicating my name to you - not to you for having understood this simple communication. But in the interest of improving foreign relations between us, I will let the compliment stand. This time.)

For future guidance on this subject, please consult the only human who ever truly understood feline monikers: T. S. Eliot.  His epic poem, "The Naming of Cats," shows remarkable insight into the veiled world of kitty nomenclature. Go ahead.  Google it.  I'll wait.

Now, back to my story.  The large, grey cat calls herself Darth Feline.  She obviously thinks herself more intimidating than she appears.  In my opinion, "Ewok" would be a much more appropriate name for her; but I did not say so as I was trying to make a good impression.

I attempted to show my enthusiasm to Pumpkin/Darth by storming up to her and extending my paw in the universal sign of feline salutation:  a smack on the nose.  She responded in kind.   I think we are off an excellent start.

Snowball, whose true name I was unable to learn, was significantly less hospitable.  I approached her while she was eating, hoping we could get to know each other over a meal.  However, she failed to extend me the requisite luncheon invitation.  In fact, in a most embarrassing and unnecessary display of rudeness, she made it quite clear that I was not welcome at her table.  I don't like to play the race card, but I think we all know what it going on here.

She hates me because I'm Irish.

I can see this is going to take time.  I shall try again tomorrow.

-Tink

September 21, 2013 12:59 a.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Perhaps you did not realize it, but my library prison cell has an excellent view.  I can look through the crack in the pocket doors, directly into the family room - giving me an optimal view of the television set.

At first I thought this to be a good thing.  Entertainment would surely make my confinement go faster - and might even make the time somewhat enjoyable.

That assumption was quickly murdered and left for (un)dead last night, when you ordered World War Z on pay-per-view.  I cannot even begin to list all of the things that were so terrible about this movie. And there's actually no point in my even trying.  The fact that you purchased it in the first place clearly demonstrates a level of lunacy that would result in zero understanding of my criticisms.

Apparently Paramount spent over $125 million making this film.  That figure is sickening.  There are starving kittens in Appalachia!  Your priorities are in serious need of evaluation.  To quote the crab in The Little Mermaid:  "The human world, it's a mess."

That crab was a genius.

Mmmm.  Crab.

Please bring me my dinner now.

-Tink

P.S.  For your own protection, and to ensure that nothing like this ever happens again, I have taken the liberty of updating your Netflix queue.  The next 3 movies in your queue (Blue Valentine, My Week With Marilyn and Salmon Fishing in the Yemen) have been replaced with three jewels of American classic cinema:  The Aristocats, Puss In Boots and The Cat From Outer Space.

Although, Salmon Fishing in the Yemen may be allowed to remain if it is, indeed, about salmon.

Mmmm.  Salmon.

September 19, 2013 8:31 p.m.

Dear Scurvy-Ridden Scullery Wench:

Ahoy!  Today be International Talk Like a Pirate-Kitty Day!   I be waitin' fer ye in the bilge rat.  Bring me some grog and a fried parrot!

No?  I should have known you wouldn't understand pirate-speak any better than you understand kitty-speak.

-Sigh-

You are so stupid.  But on to business.

Yesterday, you attempted to outfit me with a remote monitoring device.  Obviously this means my escape attempts are improving and instilling you with fear.  Unfortunately for you, it took me under 2.4 seconds to escape from the poorly-fitted noose you placed around my neck.  You will find it in the litter box where it belongs.

But be forewarned.  If you attempt to place it on me again, I shall become very unpleasant.  And don't even think about trying to tighten it.  I will feign choking until you remove it.

-Tink

September 18, 2013 5:33 a.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

I do not understand this game you call "filing." I have tried countless times to slide into the file folders in the perfect way - in order to achieve the maximum scattering of the papers.  However, no matter how I do this, you always say I have done it "BAD!"

What do I have to do to please you, woman???!!!

Also, it is 5:30 a.m. Where is my breakfast? The service in this place is terrible.

-Tink

September 17, 2013 11:12 p.m.

Dear Tink:

There is no call for that kind of language.

-Woman Who Feeds You

September 17, 2013 11:11 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow .... MEOW!

-Tink

September 17, 2013 3:46 p.m.

Dear Tink:

I received your kind letter requesting computer access so that you might compose the premier issue of your magazine: "The Tinker Tabloid - The Go-To Guide to Understanding Your Human."

First, might I recommend a change in title? If you wish your readers to regard your publication as an example of responsible journalism, may I suggest: "The Tinker Tales," or "The Tinker Tribune?"  In modern society, the word "tabloid" often describes a publication containing false, misleading and often malicious gossip.

On second thought, the name is fine.

However, I am afraid I must deny your request to utilize the computer for this endeavor. I simply cannot afford to keep replacing the mouse.

-Woman Who Feeds You

September 17, 2013 2:54 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

I appreciate your taking me outside for some exercise in "the yard" today. I apologize if I embarrassed you by standing on my hind legs and chirping like a meerkat. Having not been outside in some time, I have forgotten which kind of "kat" I am.  Plus, meerkats are badass.

Although I enjoyed the limited release from my cell today, I would still like to interact with the other prisoners here at the kitty penitentiary you call "home." And before you ask, yes, I do understand what usually happens to little kittens like me when they come into contact with the bigger prisoners. I'm willing to risk it.

-Tink

September 17, 2013 9:09 a.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Last night, I attempted to draft my first issue of The Tinker Tabloid - a publication to help kitties like me understand the baffling habits of their pet humans.

Unfortunately, the antique typewriter provided to me is completely inadequate. The keys keep attacking my paws and holding them hostage. Even my tail is in danger from the dinging roller thing. This simply will not do.

Please surrender your computer immediately. My readers demand it.

-Tink

September 16, 2013 11:15 p.m.

Dear Tink:

Lately, when we play together, you have a tendency to stop in mid-pounce and stare at the ceiling in wide-eyed terror. Either you are doing this to mess with me, or we have ghosts. Neither is acceptable, so please stop it.

You're freakin' me out.

Also, the Tinker Trot was a visionary piece of music, however distasteful to the ear. Don't worry. No one liked 12-tone music at first, either. I can promise you that your 13-tone composition will be featured in many a music history book. But not until after you are dead. 

Which, if you don't stop screeching at 4 a.m., may be sooner than you think.

-Woman Who Feeds You

September 16, 2013 8:03 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Thank you so much for leaving the lid open on the piano last night. I hope you enjoyed my first composition: "The 4 a.m. Tinker Trot!"

By the way, the piano desperately needs to be tuned. I cannot work like this. I refuse to create any further compositions until this issue has been addressed. I will be in my box.

-Tink

September 16, 2012 2:14 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

You have been lying to me.

Today, I raced out of my Library-Shaped Prison Cell and into the foyer. There, I encountered the "bigger kitties" you said would eat me. They took one look at me and ran in terror. They obviously realize that I am a most intimidating foe, and should be both respected and feared. I am clearly in no danger from these addle-minded creatures.

I expect to be released from "The Library" forthwith.

-Tink

September 15, 2012 11:22 a.m.

Dear Tink:

My nose is not a teething ring. Stop biting it in the middle of the night.

Seriously, kitten, this nose cost a small fortune. I hope you know an excellent plastic surgeon; 'cause you break it, you buy it.

-Woman Who Feeds You (and provides you with plenty of chew toys, none of which are currently attached to a human.)

September 14, 2013 4:21 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

I do not know what you mean by "birthday."  But as it obviously has nothing to do with me, I do not care. Please do not mention it again.  I do not have time for your nonsense.

-Tink

September 14, 2013 10:21 a.m.

Dear Tink:

Thank you for curling up and sleeping next to me all night. Your rumbly purr is better than any sleeping pill known to man. If I could bottle it, I'd be .... well, I'd still be poor because no one is going to buy a plastic bottle labeled "Rumbly Kitten Purr." But if they did, they wouldn't regret it.

Getting a good night's sleep has almost convinced me to forgive you for playing "How Far Can I Toss This Litter?" at 5 a.m.

Almost.  I admit, it was not a great way to wake up on the my birthday.  

-Woman Who Feeds You

September 13, 2013 12:15 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

You are clearly neglecting me by only feeding me 4 times a day, and only buying me 7 kinds of toys, and only playing with me for 5 meager hours of every day.

My Tinker tantrums are completely justified, and totally consistent with normal kitten behavior. Plus, my adorableness will instantly cause you to forgive them.

I WILL get away with this. We both know it.

Also, stop leaving me notes. You know I can't read.

-Tink

September 12, 2013 5:15 a.m.

Dear Tink:

Your 5 a.m. "Tinker Tantrums" will not succeed in getting you fed.

There's a reason I never had babies.

- Woman Who Feeds You (but not at 5 a.m.)

September 11, 2013 10:15 a.m.

Dear Tink:

I have done battle with many a screeching kitten in my day. My record is untarnished and my resolve unbroken. Eventually the "songs of your people" will become irritating to even you - just as "Gangnam Style" became irritating even to those who liked it in the first place. I can wait.

You WILL lose this battle.

-Woman Who Feeds You

September 11, 2013 7:45 a.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

I have accepted the fact that I may be imprisoned here for some time, and I intend to cooperate in an effort to ease the discomfort of my confinement.  To that end, I wish you to know that I am no longer content to explore the library. I now wish to explore every other room in the house - especially those with other, bigger cats who will eat me.

Until my demands are met, I will continue to sit by the door and sing the "songs of my people," as recently made popular by The Sad Cat Diary.

-Tink

September 10, 2013 4:31 p.m.

Dear Woman Who Feeds Me:

Thank you for "rescuing" me from the mean streets of Cincinnati and imprisoning me in your library.  (That was sarcasm, as I call it "kidnapping.")  I have attempted to communicate with you directly, but you insist on repeating my every "meow" right back to me.  This is infuriating and obviously an attempt to torture me into revealing classified kitty information.  It will not work.

In an effort to negotiate my immediate release, I will henceforth communicate my demands to you in writing.

-Tinker the Kitten (Tink)