Monday, September 12, 2011

Why Sir Whisky Is the Best Cat Ever

I have the day off because my truck died and I can’t work because I forgot my password, so instead of doing more book editing I’m going to tell y’all why my cat rocks. Then I’m going to take a nap.

Now, I’m sure you think your cat is the best cat in the world, but Whisky takes the cake. After all, is your cat named Sir Whisky Sour? My cat is royalty, yo.

I mean, look at this face. Clearly, the most handsome cat face in the world.

Sir Whisky will be 16 in December. He’s OLD. He’s also spoiled rotten, both because he’s old and because he’s essentially my child. I mean, he poops on himself, throws his food all over the kitchen floor, and insists on waking us up at the crack of dawn. That’s pretty much a child, right?

Sir Whisky got his name two different ways. When we first got him (I was in 8th grade, so around age 13, maybe?), his name was Whispers. We didn’t like this name, or his former owners. They abused him and he was terribly overweight and scared of his own shadow; it was so sad to see. The lady was giving him away because her husband kicked him all the time and his dogs tried to eat him. WTF lady. Give away your husband for being an abusive ass, why don’t you? Apparently someone had already taken Whisky, but brought him back because he wouldn’t come out from under the bed. We were his third home in 4 years and it took a long time for him to stop being afraid. Now, he is the sweetest cat in the world who loves attention. It just took lots of love and patience.

Anyway, we changed his name to Whiskers. Well, Whiskers decided he wanted a taste of rum and drank out of a rum and Coke (just a couple licks) and he was promptly given the nickname of Whisky Sour, and it just stuck. It’s kind of an ironic name because I hate the taste of liquor and very, very rarely drink. I’d much rather have a Pibb.

Some 7 or 8 years later (math is hard, I don’t feel like counting it out) I met S, who instantly knew that no other cat could ever compare to the awesomeness that is Whisky Sour. When we brought him up to Jax to move in with us, S decided that Whisky was also the most spoiled cat in the world who looked down on us as peasants (he can be quite demanding), so he started calling him Sir Whisky Sour and now makes him speak in a snooty British accent. It’s probably only funny in person. But, Sir Whisky does have that “I am so much better than you” face down pat.


Sir Whisky loves popcorn, Spaghettio’s meatballs, and treats. Oh, how he loves his treatsies (imagine Gollum saying that, it’s fun to say). He doesn’t get people food much anymore though because he can’t stomach it. Unfortunately, he has cancer (intestinal) and an ulcer so he’s on 3 different meds as well as monthly B-12 shots. We almost lost him earlier this year, and I’m extremely thankful for the vets who gave S and me this extra time with him. Sir Whisky is also deaf now, so he’s pretty much the loudest cat you’ll ever hear when he wants something, which is all the time. If you've ever seen the show Bored to Death, Sir Whisky is the feline equivalent to George Christopher. Whatever you have, he wants it. Whatever you're doing, he want to do it too. But he’s so damn cute that everything he does is adorable. Okay, except for the barfing and explosive poo. That’s not so cute.

In case you can’t tell, I love to talk about my cat. He’s awesome, I can’t help it. And now I shall leave you with pictures of his awesomeness.

He hangs out on his dad's leg.

He guards the Christmas presents.

He watches TV.

He always voices his opinion.

He reads.

He understands the need for comfy office chairs.


He naps where he wants, when he wants.

He looks cute even when upside down.

1 comment:

  1. I love that you talk about Sir Whiskey the way I talk about our cats. Interestingly, one of our cats is also a bit "I am all high and mighty" and thus, Greg often has her speaking in a British accent to us. :)

    The "treatsies" part also cracked me up since we have been known to use the Gollum voice for our other kitty who would probably kill us if that meant someone would give her a lifetime supply of treats...