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| Toby hides in the garden to avoid being petted |
My
apologies, clowder fans. I had no
intention of staying away so long, but life got in the way and writing moved to
the low end of the priority list. (Writing
was still higher on the list than exercise and housework, which speaks sadly of the
state of my body and home.) The good
news is that you were spared the story of Frank eating a large beetle and then
barfing its parts onto my sandal, and the tale of Jersey's latest vet visit. Talk about a tough old
gal—Jersey, who spent the 30-minute car ride
with projectile diarrhea and vomiting and is about age 96 in cat years, was able to fend off five people (three
of them trained animal care specialists)
so her blood draw attempt failed miserably.
I
know I am not alone in having a hectic schedule, but for my quiet drama-free husband and I, it all but undid us to cram several years'
worth of major events into one summer.
There were wonderful moments of joy and dreams, beginnings and
endings, and all the messy, get-your-hands-dirty stuff of humanity. My daughter married the love of her
life. They bought a fixer-upper nearby with
eleven layers of wallpaper on the walls. A storm put a tree through their roof and ruined ours. We learned how to plaster and texture
walls. We met in St. Louis at the beginning of summer and ended the season watching freighters pull into the Duluth harbor. We spent a month saying goodbye to my
mother-in-law—so much living in such a short time.
Needless
to say, the clowder does not appreciate the latest track of our human
journey. Not only have I not been
available 24 hours a day to cater to their every whim, I have refused to hold the kitchen
door open and wait for 2-3 minutes while they each take a turn deciding whether
to go out or stay in.
Their
displeasure is manifested in many ways.
For example, one cat has been naughty…repeatedly… on the carpet in the
corner of the dining room. The carpet is
wet. It smells bad. My blood boils over, but I can't prove who
did it. Of course there are the usual
suspects (FRANK!) but no eyewitness evidence.
Toby registers his anger with us by refusing to let us pet him, except
at 3:00 a.m. when he wants constant stroking and bites my elbow if I
fall asleep and stop. The remaining cats
pin me down the only chance they get—when I'm trying to sleep. They've adopted a "Head, Shoulders,
Knees, and Toes" sleeping formation, with Jersey on my head (she rats my
hair with her claws so I awake looking like a poodle), Frank on a shoulder,
Finnegan on my knees, and Biff weighing down my toes. Biff likes that spot because he can bite my
feet if I try to move or kick off the covers.
September
has returned with a sense of routine and normalcy. Hopefully the cats will pick up on that soon
and start concentrating on what they do best--living out new storylines that I can share with you.
Sweet!
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