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Published February 10th, 2014 at 10:00 am EST/EDT
firesongblog

This song is pure, unadulterated silliness (because there had to be some lighter material on this album).

Cats have been a major part of my life ever since I was born. My parents had several cats, and so, starting from the day they brought me home from the hospital, I have been around cats my entire life. There is nothing like being in love with a cat. And I do fall in love with my cats, sort of in the same way a parent might fall in love with their child. They are, to me, very much tiny people with four legs and fur. And they very definitely each have their own personality.

This song is about two of our cats: Sawyn, who is our youngest, and Morgan, who is our second youngest. Morgan is a longhaired tuxedo cat; by her build and fur, we’re pretty sure she’s at least part Maine coon. We got her off the street when she was a few months old, and she was quite antagonistic for most of the first year we had her. She’s especially stubborn, even for a cat, and I swear she has a legitimate case of Oppositional Defiant Disorder; she will do something you told her not to do just because you told her not to do it. So having her in the house was very difficult for a while, but I’m glad we worked through it. She’s starting to turn into a real sweetheart.

Her full name is Morgan le Fey, because she earned it, and we’ve nicknamed her Magpie because she will steal literally anything, even if it’s something that clearly has no interest whatsoever to a cat (like lettuce leaves or sugar snap peas…which she then plays with, because apparently the green stuff makes excellent toys). The first thing she did when we released her to socialize with the other cats was catch a mouse that had gotten into the house the same day. That ended with a thirty-minute play session with the corpse in the bathtub until she got bored.

The second cat mentioned in this song, Sawyn, we acquired when she was only eight weeks old. She was a tiny ball of tortie adorableness whose face mask made her look constantly worried. She ended up being sequestered for more than two weeks because she came to us with kennel cough, and she was pretty sick for a while. She did eventually get better, and the first thing she did when we released her into the rest of the house was go after Morgan.

Keep this in mind: At this point, Morgan was huge. As I said, we think she’s part Maine coon. She is a big cat, and there’s not an ounce of fat on her. Sawyn, on the other hand, was only about two and a half months old, and was suitably tiny on her own, not even in comparison to Morgan. But she took one look at this cat who was six times her size and decided the proper course of action was to pounce at and chase after this cat and try to play with her.

I will not lie, it was pretty hilarious to watch this tiny kitten put Morgan in her place. Part of the reason why Morgan got her name is because she enjoys terrorizing one of our middle-aged cats, who just happens to be named Gwynever. So Sawyn gave Morgan a taste of her own medicine, and the two became good friends. I think that’s actually a big part of the reason why Morgan’s mellowing out as nicely as she is.

But this period made for some really hilarious cat antics, some of which I have included in this song. And as any cat owner who’s ever had kittens can tell you, hyperactive kittens are a special kind of crazy.

So this is my song for two of my beloved fuzzlets, the title of which comes from my mom’s name for when cats become hyper. She says their crazed running about is caused by a wild hair stuck, erm, someplace.

Wild Hair time
Lyrics and music by Katt McConnell

It’s a lazy afternoon on a Saturday.
The cats that are asleep have the right idea.
We humans of the household
Knit or game our time away.
…but life is not as tranquil as it might appear.
For suddenly there’s thunder rolling up the basement stairs,
The sound of sharpened claws sliding on linoleum.
Then the whirlwind hits the living room as a streak of fuzzy black—
There ain’t no doubt about it, that time again has come.

       It’s Wild Hair Time,
       As my mother would say,
       Wild Hair Time
       When the hyper kitties play.
       I can’t believe their antics—
       Who knew cats could do gymnastics?
       Better guard the draperies,
       It’s Wild Hair Time.

Our yearling’s never been timid—no, she’s the bravest of our cats.
She’d climb the couch—or your pant leg—when she was barely weaned.
Now she’s climbing, paw by paw,
Up my chair back’s narrow slats,
No doubt plotting mayhem and mischief like a furry, little fiend.
Sure enough, she climbs onto my shoulders as I sit,
Tensing for a leap from her newfound higher ground.
I look and see her target: The cat one year her senior,
Who she gleefully ambushes without a sound.

       It’s Wild Hair Time,
       As my mother would say,
       Wild Hair Time
       When the hyper kitties play.
       I can’t believe their antics—
       Who knew cats could do gymnastics?
       Better watch where next you step,
       It’s Wild Hair Time.

The pouncing sends the youngest two around the living room,
Swatting, biting, kicking, rolling on the floor.
They stop to smooth some fur,
Because there’s always time to groom,
Then shortly, sure enough, the war begins once more.
Their tussles take them somewhere outside the area of my ken—
Next thing I know, I’ve cause to wish I wasn’t wearing shorts,
For I am once again a springboard for the yearling, to my surprise—
I didn’t see her coming, and I swear she teleports.

       It’s Wild Hair Time,
       As my mother would say,
       Wild Hair Time
       When the hyper kitties play.
       I can’t believe their antics—
       Who knew cats could do gymnastics?
       Better switch to lead-lined trousers,
       It’s Wild Hair Time.

Afternoon or evening, Wild Hair Time claims no hour,
So often times we’re treated to opera at 4 am.
They’re like capacitors with fur,
Surging before I’ve even had my shower,
And “anytime” is the right time for ruckus and for mayhem.
I’m just happy when their tails puff up to the size of mutant pine cones,
And the speed at which they run around alludes to what’s in store,
That neither frenzied fuzzlet was graced with human thumbs,
For they’re smart enough to understand what the doorknobs are for.

       It’s Wild Hair Time,
       As my mother would say,
       Wild Hair Time
       When the hyper kitties play.
       I can’t believe their antics—
       Who knew cats could do gymnastics?
       Be glad the doors don’t have levers,
       It’s Wild Hair Time.



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