Bibby's Verve

Hi! My name is Mister—heavy on the Mister, mind you—Bibby and I am 2 and ½ years of age. I am extremely attractive, captivating, and brilliant in every aspect. I live with my loving family; my Mommy is Rosemarie, my Gramps is Raymond, and my sister is Meghann. I have lots of other siblings including cats, dogs, and guinea hens. Some people seem to think I am a cat, even though Meghann has made it plain that I’m her little brother. Although her friends often give her strange looks when she introduces me, most people accept that I am the baby of the house.

I was born on April 26th, 2002, on a very bright and toasty warm day; however, I had the extreme misfortune of being nestled right in the middle of a very much inhabited ant bed. Ouch! I learned very quickly that ants are every bit as mean as they are ugly. I was surrounded by others like myself, but they quieted as the day wore on—then only two of us were left. I knew something was terribly wrong; we had been deprived of milk for hours! I screamed as loudly as I could—reaching deep within my tiny body and blasting out meows with everything I had! Finally, I heard voices! Two hands reached forward and snatched us upwards—I learned later this was my sister—I don’t know what took the incompetent fool so long to pick us up from daycare, but I thought we were going home at the very least! However, as usual, the hopeless girl bungled things up; she only shook the offending ants off of our little bodies and relocated us. Finally, our babysitter returned with the milk. I gave her a piece of my mind!

I guess I must have really hurt her feelings—she left “for good” the next day, so Meghann and Mommy took us inside the house to live. For all of our babysitter’s faults, it seems she cared enough to leave a substantial supply of formula for us! Sadly, my little pal passed away. Our babysitter didn’t give him enough milk—he was too weak. Meghann tells me the only reason I lived is ‘cause I was too mean; she claims they didn’t want me in Heaven. I know she doesn’t mean it—I’m a sweetheart and everyone says so.
By this time, the NBA playoffs had bounced around. I was a Spurs kitty—how I adored Tony Parker! Then, the Spurs lost to those grubby, scuzzy Lakers! Yuck. I wanted to borrow a cowbell from someone—no way were those jerks going to get through the Kings. I even choreographed a little celebration dance (and I wanted golden slippers for my paws—but Meg was too dense to understand me.) The games were so very stressful. I became disheartened at the results. Upon realizing the outcome of game 7, I became so violently ill that I had to go to the vet’s office. Dr. Arnim said I had a stomach virus and prescribed an antibiotic. I told anyone who would listen, “just watching Kobe and Shaq caused my illness,” but no one seemed to truly care. Perhaps the only good thing to emerge from that heartbreaking drama was… drum roll, please! I got a name! I was named after the Sacramento Kings Point Guard, Mike Bibby. I am much cuter than him, but I won’t hold that against anyone.

I finally felt better, and began eating real food soon. No more baby stuff for me! I could not bear to watch the Finals; I didn’t like Jason Kidd and the New Jersey Nets, but I still didn’t want the Lakers to win. I felt I had experienced enough disappointment in my short lifetime, so I refused to watch the series.

Back to present day; I’ve been running things ‘round here for quite some time. I’m the baby of the house, but I’m also King. Everyone loves me, and I can do whatever I please without getting into a spec of trouble. I have everyone trained very well. I enjoy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Dr. Pepper, and Lucky Charms cereal—and I just love the fluffy frosting from store-bought cakes. Chocolate can make me very sick, so we no longer have chocolate cakes in our household—my rule, but family enforced. I am sure it is very obvious, but I should reiterate that I am loved unconditionally! I like to listen to Meg’s CD-player, and some of her music is acceptable. Bruce Springsteen, John Mayer and Hall and Oates are among my favorites, but I simply can’t stand Hanson. I’ve become quite talented at jerking the electrical cord out of the outlet whenever that annoying junk starts blaring. My family reprimands me, but not because I’m spoiled—they are afraid I will be hurt in some form!

Lately, I have not been on the receiving end of too much attention. Mommy and Meghann are gone all day, and Gramps can get pretty grouchy. He favors Henry—this overweight, snobbish, belligerent cat. I greatly prefer the way things were in the olden days. Meghann was always home; she didn’t go to school. Gramps and Meghann were my “keepers”—both thought they were in charge of things when Mommy was away. Anyone who is anyone (or whatever the saying is) knows that I rule things (I have always taken care of my turf; I shall continue to reign), but what can I say? Their brain cells are few and far between. Life can get pretty darned rough, too. I work at keeping the house in order and the pets in line; it’s a tough job, especially for a little tyke like me. Things can get out of hand so quickly!
First of all, there is this awfully annoying leak that starts and stops whenever it feels like it. I run through the house screaming as the first torrents hit the roof—hoping someone will get off his or her lazy butt and take care of it—but no one ever does anything! I’ve called my attorney, and even tried contracting those thug-cats down the street. Sometimes, I think the leak has been fixed. Then it starts all over again, and I realize I was once more ripped off in allotting a case of ‘Friskies’ to those trouble-making alley cats as payment for elimination of this distressing occurrence.

Secondly, Meghann is such a moron; Spinkler (one of my brothers—more on him later—if I have time) even tells her this constantly. She understands him! Meghann never understands me when I try to tell her something. When she talks to me, I answer. But she invents these totally stupid and lame responses for me! Not just me, either. This gorgeous little girl cat eats in our backyard every day. Mommy has a garden window and I’ve managed to kill all of her plants, therefore; I can sit in the window and watch all the happenings. As I was saying, this cat—I’ve named her Cassandra—is so stunningly pretty. She’s black with white tufts of fur under her neck and on her feet—as though she is wearing perfectly made boots! Her eyes are a cross between emerald and sea green, and they’re always shining. I have told Gramps, Meggies, and Mommy to give warm milk to Cassie and her friends on cold days. Last Tuesday, Meghann went out on the back porch (causing Cassie to run, I might add!) and asked in a stupid, babyish voice, “Hey pretty black kitty, do you want some milk?” then Meghann stomped back into the house in a huff and told Mommy that Cassie said, “Get the heck away from me; if I want milk I’ll find a cow!” Oooh—I can’t tell you how angry that made me! I was ready to chew nails and spit tacks! Cassandra is an elegant, ladylike cat—she would never speak so crudely!

Third, and lastly—I don’t want anyone to think I’m a pessimistic, whiny brat—whenever Mommy is home, she pays a lot of attention to Fluffy; the scrappy cat residing in my front yard. He’s “fluffy” (I called him fat one day, but he responded “I ain’t fat—I’m just fluffy!” proving that he should have failed any and all English classes he may have taken), a jerk, and rather stupid, if you ask me. Last week, Meggies was working on the computer, and I used her back to hoist myself up—to look out the window, you see. I guess I didn’t have to stick my claws into her skin, but it sure made my climb easier. After apologizing to Meghann, I glanced out the window—lo and behold; my mother was petting that cat! I told Meghann “You go tell that Fluffy to get away from Mommy or I’m gonna go out there and thread that tangerine tail through his nose!!!” Finally! For what must have been the first time ever, Meghann understood exactly what I said.

I heard meddling-Meghann telling Mommy a while ago that when you are in the same house with Gramps, you don’t have to actually watch TV to know what’s going on! I thought that was good blackmail material, to be saved for the next time Meghann crosses me. Then, “Malcolm in the Middle” came on, and Gramps turned the volume up even more. Meggies groaned and told Mommy, “I sure hope Mister Bibby doesn’t listen to the musical intro for that show—that’s all I need!”

So, thanks for talking with me today. I’ve really enjoyed telling you about my life! This is Mister Bibby, signing off—I have to practice my singing. Gimme a 1, 2, 3… “Yes, No, Maybe. Can you repeat the question? You’re not the boss of me now, you’re not the boss of me now, you’re not the boss of me now… and you’re not so big.”