Between the construction across the street, the yelly people on the sidewalk, and the fact that the dog can’t fit on the windowsill, Luna has claimed her crown. She spends a LOT of time in the bay window.
I’m not sure what’s going to happen once I bring that patio table back down into the tarmac garden, but my original idea of building a window seat will only draw the dog to the window. The cat tolerates Kaylee about as well as Kaylee tolerates the cat.
I’ll have to think of something to avoid any feline comeuppance.
The cute little girl-cat-turned-boy-cat-that-has-grown-to-unforeseen-monstrous-proportions-considering-he’s-maybe-only-9-months-old has got himself a new favourite activity.
He eats my clothes.
It started with socks and underwear.
Then he moved up to pajama pants and the straps of my camisole shirts (followed quickly by the bellies of my camisole shirts), the sleeves of my long-sleeved (ha!) jersey shirts that are part of my work uniform, and the ribbing along the bottom of both of my sweat shirts.
I don’t have a lot of clothes – on purpose. I’ve been “smallering” now for years, and my wardrobe consists mostly of two full sets of work uniforms and maybe three full sets of my “non-work uniforms”, because, especially in the winter, no one can see what I’m wearing, so I just wear the same damned thing all the time.
And now the F-ing cat (newly re-named yet again, this time to “Mothra”) has eaten a hole in one of my two pairs of jeans.
The weather had better warm up fast and soon, at this rate.
Tricksy the Not-Girl Cat has settled in to the point that he has taken over all the cat toys and now owns the cat tree as well. He tends not to pay much attention to it, unless Luna decides to climb it, whereupon he tears up the side of it and removes her forcibly. He then guards it like a buzzard while Luna paces at the foot of the tree, grumbling with discontent, until he falls asleep.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZFxo5yloUQ&hl=en&fs=1&] Insomnia by Cat
I took this video in May, when Sheikh was still sleeping above my head.
Not very long ago, he was his usual fat and fluffy self, but then became boney and light as air in a few short weeks. He eventually stopped eating altogether. He hid out most of the time, and what kept me awake during that time was not his snoring, but my nerves, while I tried to search him out, hoping not to find him dead under the stairs or the couch.
“He’s old, though,” I thought. “It may soon be time…”
Monday, he stopped drinking water. By 5 am Tuesday morning, he was gone. I wish now that I could say I’d just found him dead, having gone to sleep and stayed that way. The way he did die was hard to watch – he was in pain, a lot of pain, I think, and I have a huge amount of guilt over not getting him to a vet in time to either heal him of whatever caused this, or to save him from a such a hard death.
He was wonderful company for the last few years. I’m really going to miss him…
We took him out to The Dog-Lady’s farm to bury him. On the way there, I told The Evil Hypnotist that no way were we getting another cat. I don’t want to get attached to any more pets. No. Way.
Ky was upset: The Patchouli-Cat has never been alone… she will miss Sheikh, too… she needs another cat for company….
When we got there, I opened my door to step out, and five large dogs piled into the van. I was trying to get them out when they noticed the box with Sheikh in it. It was really odd to watch them. They obviously realized that whatever was in that box was dead, and I would have expected them to try to get into it, but they didn’t. They got very quiet, sniffed at the box, and one by one (by one, by one, by one) they all filed back out the driver’s door.
By the time I got over to Ky, she was sitting in a lawn-chair, cuddling a teeny-tiny black kitten.
I said, “No. Way.”
She said, “Please…?”
I said, “No. Way.”
She said, “Pleeeeeeaaaaaaase?!”
I looked at The Dog-Lady, and said, “Help me, would you?”
And The Dog-Lady looked back at me and replied, “Hey, you owe me. I took your dog.”
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aVW1CtJN9J0&hl=en&fs=1&] For the record, I am not attached to this little monster. Not.
My life is fairly straight-forward and routine-oriented. I really like it that way. If there’s going to be any excitement, I’d like to plan it, trouble-shoot it, and control all aspects of it, thank you very much.
Patchouli, the cute little fur-ball you see above, feels otherwise. She has, in fact, been the cause of many incidents of “excitement” around here, much to my dismay. She revels in causing emergency situations calling for cool heads. I don’t deal well with emergencies, if you must know.
When Patchouli pulled a heavy table-top down on her head a couple of years ago (did you know it’s possible for cat shit to come out both ends of a cat at the same time?), my way of dealing with it was to scream and cry a lot. She survived, obviously, but the credit goes to the thankfully cooler heads that were actively prevailing at the time. You’d never know the cat got bonked, except that she’s a little retarded, now.
Okay, maybe more than a little retarded.
She likes to squish herself through the 2-inch width of open window by my desk, to sit on the 2-inch width of ledge – the only thing keeping her retarded little head from meeting the pavement of John Street before being squashed flat by a truck. She sits on the other side of the glass, smiling at me, waiting for the panic attack.
She also likes to sit beside one of the many candles that burn here every evening, twitching her tail through the flame. Smiling. I keep waiting for the Whooomph! that will signal the beginning of her painful demise…
Yesterday being Wednesday, the kuckiest day of the week, historically speaking, I spent the evening indulging in my weekly habit of tub-soaking in a dim bathroom, radio playing, candles burning, bath oil oiling… and my face painted with one of those “stress-relieving” facial masques that are supposed to suck out all the day’s tensions while erasing 40 years’ worth of wrinkles at the same time.
I’ve never actually seen my face with this goop on – I don’t have the guts to look, truthfully – but it looks yellow coming out of the jar, at least by candlelight, so I can just imagine the vision I must be while wearing it.
For the full effect, you must imagine me, as well, with my hair yanked back and tucked into a shower-cap. Oh yeah…. and naked. That got you laughing, right?
Patchouli likes to keep me company in the bathroom on Wednesday evenings. It’s the candles, of course – the flames fascinate her, and she loves to sit on the vanity and watch the reflection of the candles in the mirror, twitching her tail back and forth…
I got sick of hauling myself up and out of the tub every two minutes to put her down on the floor. Aside from getting car hair all over my wet hands, and then transferring it into the bath water, there was also a good chance I’d catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and scare the bejeezus out of myself. The thought kind of makes the idea of meditating in a hot bath by candlelight to wash Wednesday away a little laughable. As does the idea of the cat suddenly going up in flames, which is why I finally put her out the door.
I had just settled back down, with the water up to my shoulders, and my neck resting on The Turkey’s squishy bath pillow…. Siiiiiiiiiiigggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh……. when I heard a quack.
I did. I heard a quack and it wasn’t a duck.
It was Sheikh, the other cat that owns me. Sheikh quacks. He does. You can hear him here, if you don’t believe me…
I hadn’t noticed him sitting in the sink, but there he was. He’s “poof-ier” than Patchouli. I think that makes him more flammable. I got thinking that a better word might even be “combustible”, that’s how “poofy” he is…
Well, the vision ran away with me, and all I could imagine was that Whooomph! sound, followed by shrieking coming from either me or the cat, or both, and Sheikh flying down the hall, in flames, followed by myself, dripping wet and naked except for my shower cap and my face painted yellow, screaming, “The cat’s on fire! The cat’s on fire!”
And I got laughing. Hysterically. Out loud.
I could just imagine The Guy Across the Hall on the other side of the bathroom wall, wondering what all the laughing and quacking in my bathroom was about…
I haven’t decided how well yellow facial-masques or bath oil or candles work for relieving stress and tension. I do know that laughter works wonders.