In my request for assistance with the costs of this blog, my sole responder, Jarrett, wrote:

Actually, this member of the �€œliberal elite�€� has been on Atrios�€™s case, because he let more than a week go by without a cat pic.

For this Democrat, political blogs need a dash of �€œfiber�€� now and then, by which I mean some evidence that its writers have lives, or at least have an aesthetic appreciation of the lives that they used to have until they became obsessed with blogging/politics/polls. In the case of single bloggers, it�€™s nice to know that even though blogging has destroyed this person�€™s social life, he�€™s still capable of caring for a more patient friend such as a cat. It helps keep this from becoming a huge and consuming symbolic abstraction, which political blogging inevitably is at this point in the season.

You want my money? Show me your cats!

If it were only that simple, Jarrett. I enjoy cats. Growing up, our dogs treed a kitten who we adopted. As spaying and neutering weren’t common then, it took about 6 years before Tiger, her kittens and grandkittens rewarded us with a total of 37 of them…. simultaneously, at the peak of their performance. We loved the puddytats, even the ‘tard we named Poopytail, because, well, she lacked the normal grooming instincts common to the species.

Since then, there’s been quite a few. But you have to understand, Jarett, in the moist climes of Oregon, cats died out a century ago due to the hostile environment. So we have to make do with the wild creatures that have withstood the rain.

Tails of the Ancients

There’s plenty to prove that we Oregonians come from a long line of catlovers, though. Thousands of years before white settlers moved in, the ancient Catatonic Indians even built a temple to the cat in the Eastern Oregon desert, as they viewed the creatures as gods.

There’s an undeniable resemblance to Egypt’s Sphinx, to be sure. Legend has it the Catatonics migrated, by way of the Trans-Siberian trolley, to Northern Africa, in 2500 BC, taking their penchant for building huge Cat-acombs to the land of the Pharouts.

Much more recently, a similar affinity for the purring beasts was demonstrated by the hordes of settlers who traversed the nation after word spread that the forests were full of old growth cats ‘with the tallest furs in America.’

A Memorial to His Favorite Pussy

In the late 1800s, one visionary went so far as to sculpt the head of his favorite cat out of the top of one of the Catscade Mountains, and that’s how the famous snow-capped Mt. Pussmore came to be.

It was evident to him that the once abundant felines were on their way out then. Fur after fur was felled by the clearcatting practices of settlers who loved their pussies too much.

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A Mime is a Great Thing to Waste

The tall fur cats of Oregon, revered for their capacity to control pest populations, were largely gone by the 1900s. Here, one of the last of the breed was captured in a rare 1902 B&W photograph, moments before it pounced and devoured a mime.

In 1907, the last of the species, Mountain Mane Merlin, passed away in Roseburg, and Oregon has been catless since.

You Need a Kermit to Fell that Cat

Felinthropologists who have studied the giant cats claim the clearcatting deprived them of their natural habitats, exposing them to some of Oregon’s ferocious predators, like the Nocturnal Gnarly Philomath Frogs. Weighing between 65 and 85 pounds, these dangerous amphibians were known to swallow cats whole.

They continue to thrive on possum and nutria, though ancient legends persist that they would occasionally dine on the the papooses of the lost tribe of the migrating Kallah Forneas.

Man’s Endless Quest for the Biggest Kitties

Reports occasionally crop up, of wilderness backpackers who claim to have spotted a roving pair of the extinct felines, but investigations repeatedly yield the more likely sighting of a Mount Hood Meerkat.

The meerkats, who mate for life, can usually be identified by their peculiar trait of one feasting on grubs and bugs while the other stands sentry against intruders. Don’t be fooled by their friendly faces; they can be quite vicious at mealtimes.

Baabaa Ram Dross

Should you ever trailhike in the region, another critter you’ll want to steer clear of on mountain trails are the Woolly Mountain Rams. Humans are no match for the surefooted creatures.

A member of the tragedy-stricken Donner Party logged a diary entry of an attempt to kill and eat one. He used a pole to knock one off a cliff “yet after a fall of at least eighty feet, was shocked to see the beast land square on his feet, then charge from the ravine and butted me, repetidly, till I was most sore in my tingly parts.”

The popularity of Black Buttes Bear

There are two other dangerous wild animals you’ll want to avoid in Oregon. Throughout both of its mountain ranges, and sometimes well into the valleys, the most dangerous animal by far is the Black Buttes Bear.

Prized for their fur, they are often live trapped, as shown in this photo, to limit damage to their hides, which fetch a pretty price at auction.

This cat is an Earth mover

The other danger resides closer to the coast. The last remaining relative to the extinct giant fur cats, the Brookings Bobcat can outrun a jackrabbit and some have been known to down an entire herd of drapery in a matter of hours.

Here’s a photo of taxidermist Molly Maginnity, holding a stuffed specimen of an impressive one, measuring 13 feet, 7 inches from tooth to tail.

By now, I’m sure you’re wondering how Oregonians cope, lacking the company of cats. It’s assuredly difficult, but we make do as best we can.

Like a Beaver Without the Flappy Tail

Many Oregonians settle for regular glimpses of the wildlife, especially near the multitude of coastal marshes and rivers in the state. It’s a very common site to see a Medford Muskrat in the south of the state.

This timid creature ventures out only in the late afternoons and evenings, in pursuit of its principal food source, baked sardines in a piquant creamed dill sauce.

I’ll Be Dammed if I Go For the Easy Subtitle

It’s far less common to observe the even more timid Bandon Beaver, though its dams are visible crossing many creeks and rivers throughout Oregon. Typically resting during daylight hours, their workday begins at dusk, as they chew their way through saplings and branches, with formidable gnawing teeth, as shown in this snapshot.

And the Lord said: “Let There Be Yertle”

Native Indian lore speaks of a giant tortoise, swimming through space, as the creature who becomes the living planet we all gain sustenance from.

Tourists often visit the Oregon coast in May and October for the chance to witness the spectacular migration of the schools of Giant Torti, as they move from Lincoln City to Newport (Spring) and back again (Fall.)

We really don’t recommend you try to lift them, as this plucky tourist did, or you may experience the unpleasantness of a Giant Hernia. Trussed me on this.

Don’t Bring Me Down

Perhaps the greatest annual fun of the locals anywhere in Oregon occurs at the coastal resort city of Seaside, where thousands gather for the Great July Duck Hunters Hunt.

No Oregonian goes after the loveable waterfowl, as they’re the state’s mascot. Instead, they pursue the outsiders dumb enough to hunt the beloved ducks. Here’s a well-trained Seaside Setter, pointing to a den of ducks. Locals will often move in the opposite direction, quacking and flapping their arms, to fool any hunters who may be lurking nearby.

Feeling Ducky ?

Here’s a mother Mallard watching over her two ducklings.

Note that, at just six weeks old, the baby ducks haven’t molted yet, gaining the distinctive markings of their adult plumage.

It must not be hunting season, either, or they’d not be outing themselves like this.

Can You Bill Them Later?

In a picture taken two years ago, these two deadly Razor-Billed Ducks were captured on film as they moved in for the kill on an especially prized prey.

According to the locals, they just missed their intended victims, as Cheney and Scalia moved too quickly to the outhouse for their daily Constitutional.

Owl Be Around Tonight

Other Oregonians are drawn to birding and there’s no better place to begin than with the diverse family of owls that the state has to offer.

Here we see a Great Horned Owl, fast asleep. As is its custom, it naps with one eye open, as a surprisingly effective alarm for sudden movement that could spell danger to the bird during its resting hours.

Diving Into its Mark

The Great Horned Owl is one of nature’s greatest predators. It can spot the movement of a field mouse from more than a thousand feet away.

Feeding on mice, moles, voles and (gasp!) even kittens, owls can be a farmer’s best friend. This owl dove from 1500 feet and will soon be dining on the string that frayed from your shirt hem.

These kept them from Logging On

Environmentalists the world over will recognize Oregon’s most endangered bird.

To preserve it, courts had to rule to protect old growth forests, sharply curtailing the timber industry here. Loggers responded with enormous vitriol to everyone anywhere who ever expressed a desire to conserve anything anywhere. A few even went and shot a few of the birds

Some came up with recipes to cook the poor fella, but they didn’t need to bother as the bird’s obviously already baked. Of course, I’m referring to Oregon’s famous Sotted Owl.

Just Wing It

The least known of these birds is the Banded Barn Owl. Actually that’s not quite true. For Oregon parents, the problem is they know too much.

Although it, too, will feast on rodents, it reserves most of its energy for a hedonist act. Yes, you might say this owl enjoys ‘winging it’ and doesn’t hesitate, even with an audience around.

And ‘no’, I don’t even want to venture a guess whether a hand in the bird is worth anything to Bush.

(See what you started, Jarrett? Even worse, the rest of the story will be in Part 2, tonight.)