Loki doesn’t believe in the word ‘no.’  To him, saying it sounds more like a grunt or some other meaningless, incomprehensible noise made by silly humans.  This apparent lack of regard for others usually means an interruption by him cannot be ignored.  He’s not just going to go away, but instead he’ll continue screaming at me like a harpy while manhandling me with his paws.  This was just such a case.

I knelt on the floor to get a few pictures of The Kids as they lounged about in the sunshine beaming through the windows.  The moment I was on the floor, however, Loki immediately came over, stood with his front paws resting on my legs, and proceeded to pester me for attention—replete with shrill meowing and the occasional scratch as he pawed at me incessantly.  Trying to take pictures of anything else became impossible, and even taking pictures of him turned into an exercise in futility because I couldn’t keep him at bay with just one hand.

The last photo was when I gave up.  I had switched the camera to my other hand in an attempt to capture a closer shot of him, but he snagged the strap and yanked the camera just as I pressed the button.  At that point, all I could do was turn the camera off, set it aside, and give in to the demands being made of me.

Loki is not known for his patience.  In fact, he has zilch in that regard: a whole lotta nuthin when it comes to waiting.  That’s not his style at all.  Besides, he doesn’t take “no” for an answer—EVER!

I was knelt down beside the bed sorting laundry when he jumped up and came over to demand some attention.  You can see I’m scolding him for his impatience and letting him know he needs to wait until I’m done tending to the business at hand.

You can likewise see he’s not at all interested in my blathering nonsense.

You can almost see him tapping his foot in dismay.  “What’s taking so damn long!?”

The cat could very well be man’s best friend but would never stoop to admitting it.

— Doug Larson

[Loki]

One problem with trying to photograph The Kids when I’m playing with them is that… well… it’s that I only have two hands and one set of eyes.  If a hand is involved in play—something that’s difficult to avoid, you understand—the other hand, which is still attached to the same body, is responsible for aiming the camera and taking the picture.  As if that wasn’t difficult enough, I’m left trying to watch the play and the hand involved while simultaneously trying to watch the camera so I can guesstimate the image I’ll capture.

Thus you can understand these two photos of Loki.  It’s terribly important with him to keep a close eye on the fun.  He has no mercy when he plays.  That’s fine and I accept it, but being smart about it can help minimize the damage I suffer as a result.  Therefore, trying to get a few pics at the same time can divert my attention just long enough for him to swoop in and inflict bloody hell—and I mean “bloody hell” quite literally.

So I ask you when looking at these photos: Is it a waltz or an attack?

Sometimes when photographing The Kids and using the flash, I get weird feedback from their eyes.  I know that’s normal with animals, and it’s interesting from time to time when seeing the differences between various species and what the light brings out (e.g., squirrels reflect amber or orange, opossums and raccoons reflect white, humans reflect red, and so on).  Cats, on the other hand, reflect all sorts of things depending on the angle at which flashed light enters their eyes and bounces back.

These two images of Loki, both of which I intended to discard, wound up as intriguing examples of feline photoreflectivity.  In the interest of full disclosure, they were also easy marks for a quick picture post.