Siamese Cat Quotes

My ears are too beeg for my head. My head ees too beeg for my body. I am not a Siamese cat ... I AM A CHIHUAHUA!" -- Skippyjon Jones (In his very best Spanish accent)

My name is Skippito Friskito. (clap-clap) I fear not a single bandito. (clap-clap) My manners are mellow, I'm sweet like the Jell-o, I get the job done, yes indeed-o. (clap-clap)

Schrödinger’s cat was a Siamese cat, must have been, because if it’s at once alive and dead, it’s a zombie, and the only zombie cats are Siamese cats.

There is a particular disdain with which Siamese cats regard you. Anyone who has walked in on the Queen cleaning her teeth will be familiar with the feeling.

At night the cries of cats making love or fighting, their caterwauling in the dark, told us that the world was pure emotion, flung back and forth among its creatures, the agony of the one-eyed Siamese no different from that of the Lisbon girls, and even the trees plunged in feeling.

...if you've never been cussed out by a Siamese, you don't know what profanity is all about!

The kitten was six weeks old. It was enchanting, a delicate fairy-tale cat, whose Siamese genes showed in the shape of the face, ears, tail, and the subtle lines of its body. [...] She sat, a tiny thing, in the middle of a yellow carpet, surrounded by five worshipppers, not at all afraid of us. Then she stalked around that floor of the house, inspecting every inch of it, climbed up on to my bed, crept under the fold of a sheet, and was at home.

Nothing can scatter like 3 Siamese cats better than 2 Siamese cats.

I've got a Siamese cat. It has 2 heads and 18 lives.

I think this one’s in the running for Ditzy Bride status. Not only does she want her MOH to walk her two Siamese cats down the aisle rather than carry a bouquet, but wants to include them on the guest list.

There were fat cats and skinny cats. The long-tailed and the bobbed. The daring young leapers, and the old windowsill sleepers. Balls of waddling fluff, smooth-coated prowlers, and hairless ones that looked fragile and wise. The tiger-striped, the ring-tailed, and the ones with matching coloured socks and mittens. There were tabbies and calicos. Manx and Persians. Siamese and Bombay. Ragdolls and Birmans. Maine Coons and Russian Blues. There were Snowshoes and Somalis, Tonkinese and Turkish, and many, many more. Brown and beige and orange and grey and black and white and silver cats, each with gleaming eyes of emerald, or sapphire, or amber. A rainbow of precious stones.

His first job was to find some rich lady’s pedigree Siamese cat. He managed to run it over on the way to see her. The second job was a divorce case – which you may think is run-of-the-mill until I tell you that the clients were perfectly happily married until he came along… There hadn’t been a third case.

When Mrs. Pattern first came into my life, she was gossiping in the lane with a nursemaid who was wheeling a perambulator containing a baby of exceptional repulsiveness.Babies, as all bachelors will agree, should not be allowed at large unless they are heavily draped, and fitted with various appliances for absorbing sound and moisture. If young married persons persist in their selfish pursuit of populating the planet, they should be compelled to bear the consequences. They should be shut behind high walls, clutching the terrible bundles which they have brought into the world, and when they emerge into society, if they insist on bringing these bundles with them, they should see that they are properly cloaked, muted, sealed up and, above all, dry. They should not wave them about in the streets to the alarm of sensitive persons who are used to the company of Siamese cats.

He’s an excellent listener. Most cats are. Except Siameses, the chatty little bastards. I

Do you mind living alone?” she asked. “I’ve tried it both ways,” he replied, “and I know it can be a letdown to come home to an empty apartment, but now I have the Siamese to greet me at the door. They’re good companions; they need me; they’re always happy to see me come home. On the other hand, they’re always glad to see me go out—one of the things that cats do to keep a person from feeling too important.

A FEW PETS had come with us for the summer: three dogs and a cat, a pissed-off Siamese with a skin condition. Dandruff. We dressed up the dogs in costumes from a wicker chest, but could not dress the cat. She scratched.

Mr. Jones surprised the family with a dog and cat from the local animal shelter to christen the house. The kids were delighted and named the cat Baby Blue, because she was a Siamese with big blue eyes. The dog they named Pioneer.

Then they decided that the fleas that lived on Siamese cats would probably be more intelligent than the fleas that lived on just ordinary alley cats. It only made sense that drinking intelligent blood would make intelligent fleas.

They were about the same age, but thirty-five years might have been forty-five if Mamma’s face had been a place for measuring time, while Coletta’s might have been twenty-five. You saw four children in Mamma’s face, you even saw Hugo there; you saw centuries of worry, ages of toil, aeons of work and distress. There was no record of children upon the face of Coletta Drigo, nor of worry, nor of distress; instead you saw a rare nuance of youth to maturity; you saw excitement; you saw great cities, happy times, the whole wonderful world; and, above all, her beauty, black hair, black eyes, the dark whitish skin. You were sure that if she had a pet it wasn’t a dog but a cat, a Siamese cat.

No one ever owns a cat,” he corrected her. “You share a common habitation on a basis of equal rights and mutual respect . . . although somehow the cat always comes out ahead of the deal. Siamese particularly have a way of getting the upper hand.

My darling, what a cat they have! Something perfectly stupendous. Siamese, in colour dark beige, or taupe, with chocolate paws and the tail the same. Moreover, his tail is comparatively short, so his croup has something of a little dog, or rather, a kangaroo, and that’s its colour, too. And that special silkiness of short fur, and some very tender white tints on its folds, and wonderful clear-blue eyes, turning transparently green towards evening, and a pensive tenderness of its walk, a sort of heavenly circumspection of movement. An amazing, sacred animal, and so quiet – it’s unclear what he is looking at with those eyes filled to the brim with sapphire water.

Time was when my little feet were the only ones welcome in the establishment, from the chorus girls’ dressing room to the owners’ penthouse. However, the newcomer—who has no obvious attractions other than the dubious ability to scream like a harem of Siamese in heat at odd hours of the night—is the center of an epidemic of cooing that leaves myself cold.

Kelly,” her grandmother said, “The Pride needs to be dusted.” Deanna and Kelly looked at each other. “The Pride” was a collection of Mrs. Beaufort’s dead Siamese cats, all professionally stuffed by a taxidermist to preserve them. They were prominently displayed in the parlor, along with a host of other family treasure including china and costumes from their Beaufort forebears.

Oh, it’s a little worse than that,” he said, nettled. “It makes you the illegitimate son of the senior Republican senator from South Dakota. And the press will eat you alive when it comes out. You, Leta, me, everyone our lives touch. Including Cecily. She’ll make a damned great sidebar, with her anthropology degree!” “You’ll lose face with your constituents,” Tate said coldly. “Oh, to hell with that! Maybe I’ll lose my job, so what?” Holden said, glaring at him. “It wouldn’t matter if your mother would speak to me! She cut me off before I got two complete sentences out. She wouldn’t come out here and help me tell you the truth. She hung up on me!” “Good for her! What a pity she didn’t try that thirty-six years ago.” The older man’s eyes darkened. “I loved her,” he said very quietly. “I still love her. I made the mistake of my life when I thought money and power would be worth marrying a vicious damned socialite who could help me politically. Your mother was worth ten of my late wife. I never knew what hell was until I tried to live with the devil’s deal I made to get my office.” He turned away again and sat down on the sofa wearily, glancing at the beer. “You shouldn’t drink,” he said absently. Tate ignored him. He picked up the beer, finished it with pure spite and crushed the empty can. “Aren’t you leaving now?” he asked the other man with biting contempt. Holden let out a long breath. “Where would I go? I live in a big empty house with a Jacuzzi and two Siamese cats. Until a few weeks ago, I thought I had no family left alive.

Qwilleran’s Siamese cat was a celebrity at the Press Club. Koko’s portrait hung in the lobby along with Pulitzer Prize winners, and he was probably the only cat in the history of journalism who had his own press card signed by the chief of police. Although Qwilleran’s suspicious nature and inquisitive mind had brought a few criminals to justice, it was commonly understood at the Press Club that the brains behind his success belonged to a feline of outstanding intelligence and sensory perception. Koko always seemed to sniff or scratch in the right place at the right time.

Behind her, at the back of the tube, she heard a scrabbling noise. She turned to see a whitish-grey Siamese cat hurtle out of an open doorway and collide with the ladder. The cat caught the ladder with its claws and then, with practiced ease, sprang off the rungs and launched itself toward the other end of the shaft. Kira watched, impressed, as the cat soared along the ladder, turning slightly as it flew, a long furry missile armed with teeth and claws. The cat glared at her as it passed by, venomous hatred flashing from its emerald eyes. “That’s our ship cat, Mr. Fuzzypants,” said Trig.

The remainder of my estate, including twenty-two percent of Barrington Shipping, as well as the Manor House—” Mr. Siddons couldn’t resist a glance in the direction of Lady Virginia Fenwick, who was sitting on the edge of her seat—“is to be left to my beloved … daughters Emma and Grace, to dispose of as they see fit, with the exception of my Siamese cat, Cleopatra, who I leave to Lady Virginia Fenwick, because they have so much in common. They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them, including my besotted son, who I can only pray will break from the spell she has cast on him before it is too late.

Like A Rolling Stone" Once upon a time you dressed so fine You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you? People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall" You thought they were all kiddin' you You used to laugh about Everybody that was hangin' out Now you don't talk so loud Now you don't seem so proud About having to be scrounging for your next meal How does it feel? How does it feel To be without a home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely But you know you only used to get juiced in it And nobody's ever taught you how to live out on the street And now you're gonna have to get used to it You said you'd never compromise With the mystery tramp, but now you realize He's not selling any alibis As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes And say do you want to make a deal? How does it feel? How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home A complete unknown Like a rolling stone? You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns When they all did tricks for you You never understood that it ain't no good You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat Ain't it hard when you discover that He really wasn't where it's at After he took from you everything he could steal How does it feel? How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people They're all drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made Exchanging all precious gifts But you'd better take your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it babe You used to be so amused At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited (1965)

soon moved to Southern California. She grew up on both coasts, living in Connecticut and California. She currently resides in Southern California with her naughty Siamese cat, Monkey.   She’s currently working on an adaptation of one of her screenplays, several short stories and novels and the

moved to Southern California. She grew up on both coasts, living in Connecticut and California. She currently resides in Southern California with her naughty Siamese cat, Monkey.   She’s currently working on an adaptation of one of her screenplays, several short stories and novels and the next

About the Author Native San Franciscan Erika Lenkert fled the dot-community to find respite and great food and wine in Napa Valley. When she’s not writing about food, wine, and travel for the likes of Four Seasons Magazine or InStyle, or promoting her book The Last-Minute Party Girl: Fashionable, Fearless, and Foolishly Simple Entertaining, she’s in search of Wine Country pleasures to share with Frommer’s readers. She also remains subservient to her owners—two Siamese cats and most recently, her new daughter Viva. In addition to this guide, Erika authors and co-authors a number of other Frommer’s guides to California, including Frommer’s California and Frommer’s San Francisco

Faith!" Tracy called. "Your dog's got serious identity issues."... "Hey!" she said, picking Humperdinck up in her arms. "How'd you do at Tracy's" "He mounted the damn cat." Tracy set the travel kennel beside the couch. "You're going to have Siamese Yorkies if you don't do something about him.

I have a Siamese twin cat. It's got 2 heads and 18 lives.

she’s in search of Wine Country pleasures to share with Frommer’s readers. She also remains subservient to her owners—two Siamese cats and most recently

She's like one of those Siamese cats. You know - totally self-interested, way too beautiful, way too aware of the fact, and totally willing to use it to get what she wants.

When Jarod Kintz gets married, I want to wear his grandpa to the ceremony, telling everyone we're Siamese twins from the future-past. Meow.

From time to time somewhere in the house the lonely Siamese cat erupted in a high-pitched, piteous yowl, a cry of utter desolation and misery that chilled my blood, as if I had been torturing her, and was to blame for her suffering.

Normally men don't really listen all that well. You can mention that you like apricots, or The Cure, or kittens, and it just goes out of their heads the minute it's out of your mouth. I personally seize on these clues about people. For example, I know that Sasha loves the smell of violets, and that Rose enjoys novels of a bodice-ripping nature and walks for exercise and has a Siamese cat called Dr. Oodles, but if I'd asked Dan what his best friend had studied at college- where they were roommates- he would have no idea. Anyway, Edward was apparently different, because he'd sent me a gorgeous bouquet of roses that filled the room with an intense, sweetly lemony, rosy smell that was mind-blowing. The roses themselves were a rich cream and stuffed with petals that made them look like roses in paintings. Sasha was looking at me. "Well, you must have done something pretty amazing last night. I've been sketching these since I got in. They're the most gorgeous Madame Hardys I've seen in a long time." I could see she had also been getting her shit together; there were open cartons on her desk, and she'd brought her portfolio to the office. "Aren't they roses?" I was bending down, sniffing deeply. I looked for a card. Sasha laughed. "The name of the rose is Madame Hardy. It's a damask rose, and one of the most famous old roses available these days. Someone knows their flowers.

The pilots would not allow pets on board the aircraft and watercraft, creating a predicament for the staff members who had brought them to the hospital for the storm. A young internist held a Siamese cat as Thiele felt for its breastbone and ribs and conjured up the anatomy he had learned in a college dissection class. He aimed the syringe full of potassium chloride at the cat’s heart. The animal wriggled free of the doctor’s hands and swiped and tore Thiele’s sweat-soaked scrub shirt. Its whitish fur stuck to him. They caught the animal and tried again to euthanize it, working in a hallway perhaps twenty feet away from the patients in the second-floor lobby. It was craziness.

elaborately-simple beautifully conceived clothes. The face itself was sufficient to place her within ten square miles of the world’s surface. Only one capital city could produce that deepest of dark brown hair, with high-lights of black, that white neck solidly angled to the shoulders, yet too well-proportioned to seem thick: Siamese cat’s eyes of very light blue, which were so rarely

The Bachelorette proves that men are as petty and vapid and ridiculous as women are made to seem. They’re just better at hiding it, because they get to be Real Men and sulk and brood and bottle everything up. These dudes are backstabbing drama queens who are constantly cutting one another down, throwing shade all over the place, and casting more side-eyes than a Siamese cat, all for a girl who, I must remind you, could probably not do long division by hand.

That weekend my people brought home a big eared gray scrawny kit. He was so loud and annoying that I did not like him one bit.

The Siamese had finished their three-hour morning nap and had not yet settled down for their four-hour afternoon siesta. It was their Mischief Hour. Yum Yum was batting a pencil she had stolen from the writing table, and Koko was parading around with a sweat sock that Qwilleran used for biking.

Now, the blond girl tilts her head at us. “We’ve heard all about you.” She stops there, but the tone of her voice says: And when I say all, I mean the one-night-stand father, the failed acting career, the jewelry store accident, the rehab. All of it. It’s kind of impressive, how much subtext she manages to pack into one tiny word. “I’m Katrin Nilsson. I guess you’ve met Brooke, and this is Viv.” She points to the red-haired girl on her left. I should have known. I’ve heard the Nilsson name constantly since I got to Echo Ridge, and this girl has town royalty written all over her. She’s not as pretty as Brooke, but somehow she’s much more striking, with crystal-blue eyes that remind me of a Siamese cat’s. We all murmur hellos, and it feels like some sort of uncomfortable audition. Probably because of the assessing look Katrin keeps giving Ezra and me, as though she’s weighing whether we’re worth her continued time and attention. Most of the hallway is only pretending to be busy with their lockers while they wait for her verdict. Then the bell rings, and she smiles. “Come find us at lunch. We sit at the back table next to the biggest window.” She turns away without waiting for an answer, blond hair sweeping across her shoulders. Ezra watches them leave with a bemused expression, then turns to me. “I have a really strong feeling that on Wednesdays, they wear pink.

Waite, from where I sit, had about as much insight into that [the personality link to the Minor cards] and other matters as my beautiful Siamese cats. If anything, I have a sneaking suspicion that his artist, Pamela Coleman [sic] Smith, also a member of The Golden Dawn, was a strange clairvoyant creature whose inner vision must have had a greater effect on Waite than Waite did on her. Furthermore, I have always suspected that the real shining light behind this and so many of the other Golden Dawn concepts emanated from the fertile brain and vision of MacGregor-Mathers about whom we know so very little. —Israel Regardie, in a letter to Muriel Hasbrouck, October 25,

President Rutherford B. Hayes was the first to own a Siamese cat in the U.S.  It was a gift.

Consider this: Siamese cats possess genes that give the coat its characteristic coloring. The genes, however, are not set in stone, but rather express themselves conditionally in relation to the environment because they are temperature-sensitive. They are “switched on” in colder areas of the body (the brown tail tip, nose, ears, and feet) and turned off in warmer areas. If you raise a Siamese kitten in a very cool climate, it will be darker brown. In a warmer climate, it will look lighter. Thus, two cats with the same genetic makeup end up with a different phenotype, i.e., physiological expression of those genes.

Proud much, Captain America?” Yes, I want to say. He’s always been like that. Even when he was seventeen years old, he was proud, stubborn and easily insulted. If egos were animals, his would be a Siamese cat. He was never vain, though. Or pretentious or arrogant, even though he was the wealthiest and best-looking kid in town.

And then there was our Siamese cat, Sarah, who had been adopted as a kitten by our big tomcat, Diego, who would lick and clean her, let her knead his tummy as if she were nursing, and sleep with her. For about a decade they were best buddies, until Diego died of old age. Even though Sarah was younger and in perfect health, she stopped eating and died two months after Diego for no reason that the veterinarian could determine.

Qwilleran, never an early riser by choice, now found himself routed out of bed at dawn when the birds convened for their morning singsong and the Siamese wanted to join them. Koko and Yum Yum would station themselves outside his bedroom door, the one yowling in an operatic baritone and the other uttering soprano shrieks until he got up and transported them to the gazebo. Yum Yum simply wanted to bat insects on the screens, but Koko was fascinated by the chorus of trills, chirrups, whistles, warbles, and twitters. The cacophony reminded Qwilleran of the Pickax high school band tuning up for Pomp and Circumstance.

She was such a scrawny, ugly little thing, and anyway she was sick; her crystalline blue eyes were watery, and she complained a lot. Father tried to point out that 'all' Bernice's Siamese complained a lot, and they all looked ugly to the untrained eye: skinny as snakes, with peevish, triangular faces, ears all out of proportion. Vivian thought J.C. just needed to fill out a bit. She took the cat to the kitchen and let her perch on the kitchen stool, fed her little tidbits as she went about her work. J.C. developed an eclectic and discriminating palate over the next few weeks. She liked goat cheese but not feta, she accepted slivers of toasted garlic but not raw, she ate ratatouille and minced coq au vin and went ecstatic over chicken in aspic.

While still a schoolmaster he bought two Siamese cats – a breed renowned for its independence – and tried to ‘train them to place no reliance or affection upon anybody but themselves’. It was what he had been trying to do himself for years. ‘In vain,’ he concluded, with disgust. ‘Far from wandering free and independent . . . they sleep all day in the sitting room, in the intervals of mewing at me for more food.

Maria said, “You are a goddamn Siamese cat connection.

In this essay, I explore how domestic cats form a distinctive cultural group as they engage with human and nonhuman animals, yet maintain their distinctiveness in subtle ways. It is as if cats get on with the business of life without judgment.