Inconceivable

I had to lock Mister Fred in the bathroom last night once again because he just couldn't keep his paws off my phone charging cradle. I walked in at some point early this morning to check on him, and this was the scene:



I think he has regressed and suddenly does not understand what the purpose of a litter box is. Luckily, it's in the bath tub, so he can't do much damage that can't be quickly washed away. Still, I am concerned for his mental state.

Princess Freddy

Mister Fred is sitting atop a lavender throw pillow like the royalty that he wants to be tonight. Unfortunately, he is throwing me irritated "I'm-faking-this-sleep-thing-to-save-up-energy-to-keep-you-up-all-night-again" glances, so likely this pleasantry is all a ruse and a foreshadowing of the sleepless night that is to come.

Plus, he's so anti-fancy that any attempts to appear dignified don't really land convincingly:

He Will Haunt Your Dreams

Sometimes, Mister Fred lets me sleep. It usually coincides with nights after I've left him alone for extended periods. Since I spent the night in Brooklyn Friday night, he was happy to see me when I returned, a happiness that lasted until exactly 8:46 a.m. this morning, when he started to craft ways to once again infiltrate my thoughts. The peace was nice while it lasted, and I will end my week having had two good nights of sleep in a row. Still, I wake up in a cold sweat rather often because of this face:

Sleep with One -- or Both -- Eyes Open

Mister Fred managed to only work half the night, so I got a pleasant surprise of about three hours of uninterrupted sleep (even though I was still up eight times, and had to relegate him to the bathroom four of those times). This is the scene now: I actually thought he was angry and awake, but he's having a "desperately complacent" moment. I picked him up, and he sort of flopped out of my hands, but the look on his face is tormented and dangerous:



Apparently, though his eyes are open, he is asleep. Oh, those glossy, dead-alive eyes ... chilling.

Call the Complaint Department

And now, a bonus Daily Freddy. I came home from being gone for maybe an hour or two, and he was not happy. He's been meowing and scratching up my photo albums and books, which prompted an early bathroom segregataion session. The night antics have started early, and I am expecting a long one.

Mister Fred, Ruthless Taskmaster

Here's what Mister Fred was doing from the second I tried to sleep last night at about 12:30 a.m. until the second I gave up on sleeping about an hour ago:

1. Clicking the "Do Not Disturb" button on my cordless phone cradle over and over ... and over again;
2. Getting up on my desk and staring at me while repeatedly knocking my modem, wireless router and detachable computer speakers onto the floor;
3. Scratching through a pile of mail on the chair next to my bed;
4. Running away from me and hiding behind the couch when I got out of bed to try to confine him to the bathroom;
5. Meowing for no reason;
6. Knocking over everything in my shower the 10-15 times I locked him into the bathroom -- including my huge, metal shower caddy -- while meowing;
7. Scratching on the bathroom door;
8. Scratching on the bathroom floor;
9. Unraveling all my toilet paper;
10. Scratching loudly and for minutes at a time in his litter box;
11. Repeating all of the above dozens upon dozens of times.

This is what he is doing now that I am awake and working again:

Welcome to a Cat Blog, Designed by a Dog Person

Welcome to "The Daily Freddy," a blog chronicling the sometimes psychotic but always entertaining idiosyncrasies of my mentally disturbed 9-year old cat, Mister Fred. He's never been quite right, but since my beloved golden retriever Griffin died last month,




I've noticed he is even more out of whack than ever. Because I've never been a die-hard cat person (or a cat person in the least), and this is in fact my first-ever cat, I am fascinated by his multiple personality disorder habits that rear their ugly heads about every 10 minutes, interrupting my workday, my sleep patterns and anything else that I decide to do that does not directly involve him.

What does this mean? Well, it means it's time to start exploiting his eternal spin into the depths of feline madness through a daily photo blog. What is the risk of all this? I live out my worst fear and turn into a crazy cat lady, just because this exists. Really, I simply hope to understand this thing that lives with me a little better by stacking up all evidence in hopes it might point to a clear and comprehensive diagnosis.

To begin, here is an introduction to some of his many faces.

The "Jack Palance:"



The "Mother Hen:"



"Stuffed Woolly Mammoth:"



He'll pretty much only lie on things when they are freshly laundered, rendering my attempts to clean them useless, like placemats/linens, and the pillows when the pillow cases are off:





He regularly yawns and meows at the same time, which saves time and also reminds me he is capable of eating my face off if I should die alone:



"The Dead Koala:"



Sometimes I think he's really pissed off, but he's just complacent. At these times, I put things on him, like clothes and headphones ... and take pictures:



"Disgruntled Phone Sex Operator:"



When I first wake up in the morning (after he's kept me up most of the night entertaining himself with my cordless phone cradle), this is usually the view:



He will judge you every time you use the toilet:



Stay tuned for a photo a day, and if you have any good mental health insight (preferably for Mister Fred, NOT me), please feel free to share.