A Bird In the Hand

Birdbrain

Calling someone "birdbrain" is an insult for low intelligence.  There is a reason for this expression.  Two days ago an errant woodpecker (a hairy or a downy) flew into our garage.  Bad mistake.  The bird cruised around the rafters, totally ignoring the fact that we had the door Wide Open and he/she could fly down and out with ease.
No such luck.
I called the Audubon Society who suggested that we tie some cloth or paper to a long pole and try to scare him into flying down and then taking a broom and whisking him out.
No such luck.
This morning, bird was still in garage.  Two our of three cats made an escape and both or them immediately realized: Loose bird in garage!  The older one lost interest, but the mostly grown kitten thought "cat toy!" and climbed into the rafters, stalking the bird.  At one point, he flew low and before I could wield the broom, he swooped up again.  Dumber than dirt.  Kitten refused to be dissuaded.  We had errands to run, dentist appt., etc., so left kitten in the garage with food, water and litter.  When we returned home, she was asleep on the floor next to the litter, and the bird was still, have you guessed it yet?  Up on the rafters.
Dragged kitten into house.  Did she even want back into garage!  She finally fell asleep on her window perch.  A few hours later I shut the garage door again.
Checked later and did not hear/see woodpecker.  He is either skulking, dead or finally figured it out.  We put some water out for him.
Garage is full of son's belonging, a huge mess, if you will, with "stuff" all over the floor.  Rafters full of broken window screens and  oldposters, tires, lots of crap.  Plenty of places for a bird to hide.

I am worried about the poor critter and annoyed that it has, well, a birdbrain.  Life in suburbia has its little dramas.  Baby bunny on the lawn.  More cat toys.  Cat seems exhausted.

So am I.

Grapeshot

Two's Company, Three's a Crowd

Dogwood Luxuriates in a Sunbeam

Thisbe on my desk

Rulon with Glasses

Three cats are like three junior high girls, or three jealous old ladies, or well, three cats.  Rulon is jealous as hell, Thisbe has murder in her eye and Dogwood, who (we think) belonged to a crazy cat lady with twenty other cats.  is pretty cool.  Plays "mouse" all day.  Bats her paw at Rulon when he walks by, keeps out of Thisbe's way (when she feels like it) and there is a certain amount of spitting and growling and posturing.  Rulon has been doing male cat behavior and is frequently in the dog house. 

 They eat like there is no tomorrow and the litter box fills accordingly.   Still, it's kind of fun, although Dogwood is in theory a visitor.  We'll see about that.  All are either spayed or "fixed."  Nobody respects his/her own food bowl and there is a constant scrambling for the two window perches.    

I suppose they will all work it out without bloodshed.  


Grapeshot

Sunbeams are Wonderful

Dogwood has found a sunbeam. She's been confined to the house because of foxes in the yard. Hungry foxes. When she sees one, she's lays her ears back. Getting spayed this weekend. Won't much like that.

Writers and their Cats

Tortoise Cat Thisbe  - a 'fraidy cat

Orange Cat Rulon, a power napper

Friday is traditionally cat blog day, but I wanted to offer a link an alert reader sent about writers and cats.  Above are my two.  Rulon thinks a friendly act it to give chase with maybe a few swipes of his paw.  Thisbe thinks otherwise.  Mostly they ignore each other.  He always horns in when I try to groom Thisbe.  "Horns in."  A great expression which has been reinforced by observing the feeding antics of the Highland Scottish cows.  But I digress.

The Masterpiece Mystery last night (Hercule Poirot) showed a flat with a crazy cat lady.    I haven't reached that stage yet.  In my dotage, perhaps.

In the meantime, here is the link to writers and their cats. Writers and Kitties.  
We enjoyed touring the Hemingway House in Key West and seeing all the cats with an extra toe. 

Cat on Desk

The Good Life.

Thisbe on desk in the middle of everything

A report on the cats

Missed Cat Blog Day on Friday.  I have been gardening, swanning to the Cape and the Berkshires, cooking every tomato recipe in the repertoire and finding agents to query for the Burning Man book, Festival Madness. 

By and large, the cats are cool.  The orange cat is very cool, eating well, looking out the window, shedding all over the Calvin Klein down duvet, and wondering why the black and gold cat with the big stomach continues to give him the stink eye.  He gives her a pretty wide berth.  Usually.  

Said black and gold is cool unless the orange cat gets in her face.  A few days ago he wanted to play and made chasing motion, which set her off in a tizzy of hissing.  Sometimes she is caught eating his food and slinks off (guiltily) when reprimanded. 


Nonetheless, life is CAT is pretty calm.  Good birdwatching from the living room window, and chipmunk watching from the kitchen window.  Many places to nap.  Eats of schedule.  Plenty of petting.  What's not to like?

My Mistress with the Enemy Cat

Can you believe it?  All this blather about people food that a cat wouldn't deign to sniff?  Peach Pie?  Fie!
Even more blather about baby birds (Yum) and summer and not a word about me and my tribulations.  In the dead of night, I find this totally dreadful, jealous-making photo on HER commuter.  HER with my rival, getting cozy while I pursue innocent sleep. 

What's a wrong cat to do?  I took my revenge by making a mess in the litter box.  'Nuff said.


The Interloper was in HER bedroom, on HER bed.  Does she think I can't smell?  It's Sunday morning and I only got perfunctory mommy-kitty time.

It may be summer, but the days are dark.

My Mistress with The Enemy

Thisbe
Author of The Catnip Chronicles

Medical Emergency

It is not my fault.  I swear it.  The Orange Outrage arrived with a puffy jaw and an abscess and I had nothing to do with it. I would not get close enough to bite him.  He's obviously been hanging out again with the Nevada Cat Club, a bad bunch that fights and stays out all night and gets into all sorts of trouble.  Not me!  I don't fight, just hiss, snarl and growl and only when provoked. 

They gave him the bum's rush into MY cat carrier.  Not that I have any love for that blasted crate.  Not me!  Hate the trip to the vet and all those dogs and the smell of death (we aren't fooled) and all the pain and yes, humiliation.  Stuck with needles, not gently like my mistress does when she gives me my meds but long sharp needles. I tell you the vet's office is a chamber of horrors.

The orange one is feeling better and he pretty much stays out of my face and I keep to the downstairs office except for food, freshening up, and a trip to my mistress bedroom at night. 

I can count!  I get exactly 4 pieces of snacks after my meds and my mistress tried to fool me with three today and I gave her "the look."  She offered another one.  I mean, really. 

The young guest leaves tomorrow.  I have no qualms at the sight of her suitcase.  Peace will reign again.  I wonder is she'll take the Interloper with her.  What if I am stuck with him.  Granted, he's a handsome orange fellow and I've never had a boyfriend, but strange cats give me the heebie-jeebies.

All fur, fat and outrage,

Thisbe

An Early Morning Hiss: the Catfrontation

In the doghouse this morning, due to a catfrontation with the Orange Outrage at 4:30 a.m.  I chased him back to his quarters, but woke up my master and mistress in the process.  Mistress was pissed and most unforgiving, but she did pet me.  I went onto the front porch and scouted for chipmunks, but didn't find any.  Begged for treats and didn't get any.  Sometimes, life in this household really sucks.

I can't encounter The Interloper without a hiss and a growl.  My mistress always tries to calm me, but I am psyched to chase this cat all the way to hell and back.  The girl can't help it.

All the adrenaline and excitement has made my coat softer and shinier.  Must be the exercise.  Well, a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.     My mistress insists on posting another photo of the Interloper.  What can she be thinking?

Truce Declared

The Interloper and I have spent some time together.  He seems leery of me and hunkers down under the table or on a chair.  Of course, whoever has the high ground has an advantage.  I have only spat at him a bit, and went easy on the growls and didn't snarl once.  My mistress claims she is pleased with my progress.  I ignored the new toy but not the new treats. 
I must say all the excitement has been well, exciting and of course, I've always been a bit of a drama queen.  I have heard rumors of a spray bottle of water in case I get too feisty.  Must investigate.  In the meantime, naptime!

Thisbe, who is hanging in there and specializes in fierce looks.

Another Catfrontation

Last night the interloper dared come downstairs into the home office where I like to hang out.  I chased him back upstairs and under the dining room table.  My mistress tried to calm me by pushing me down and petting me, and I must say I did feel calmer.
The interloper sat under the table for a while, and I watched him, and then I turned my back.  We weren't looking at each other, and I was feeling a tad more accepting.  He is a handsome fellow, all orange with whitish stripes.  He's skinny, too, and obviously needs none of my "Atkins for kitties."   Rather a whole batch of fried chicken livers.  I, of course do not eat "people" food.   Diet nibbles, Fancy Feast tender beef (beef, not "beer" dammit)  and bottled water for me.

We had another little meeting in the middle of the night, and it was less frenzied.  Didn't realize I could run that fast.  Ah well,  exercise is  part of a cat's regimen, a smallish part of mine.

Talleyho!  Maybe another game of chase-y face awaits.

Thisbe (who insists on being the dominant cat).  After all, it's my house.

Another Face to Face

So there I was yesterday, schmoozing with my mistress in her bedroom, when in walks the house guest (HG) carrying this intruder.  My god!  He's still here.  I had hoped my nose was deceiving me.

He spat!  Viciously.
I spat!  Just as vicious.

We were separated, and he went back to the guest room.  I sniffed at the door with a ferocious big tail.  Then I was able to calm myself and go downstairs.  I overheard that he, too, had calmed himself.  So this event was not as stressful as prior ones, when my fear made me go ballistic. 

I suspect he's been eating my food and using the litter box, a cat's most private place.  What have things come to?  I think I'll retreat to my basement.  My mistress is always solicitous of me when I'm in a funk.

Thisbe

In Disgrace

I went batsh_t and chased one of the houseguests up the stairs this morning, spitting and growling.  My mistress called the vet.  I overheard her talking while I was sulking and having private time in the cedar closet.  When I emerged I was very lovey and hiding my Attila the Hun on Steroids side.   I can't believe it myself how fierce and protective of my turf I've become.  The Vet said it was a territorial thing.

I don't know where the other cat it, but I can smell him in the living room.  As long as he's not in my face, everything is just fine.  As long as no one is in my face, which I am currently washing.  I find that vigorous grooming relaxes me.  It's what a cat does, after all, and  A CAT'S GOTTA DO WHAT A CAT'S GOTTA DO. If I could paint or knit or whatever, do anything except clawing, I would put that on every wall in the house.

I'm going upstairs for a snack and to watch the Red Sox, which is something else I always do.  I  sit on the rug and my mistress reaches down and pets me and all is well.

Anti-anxiety meds were mentioned and I don't want no pills.  Egad, my diabetes shots are bad enough.  I feel like I could demolish 40 chipmunks and take on a fox.  Well, maybe not.

Attila on Steroids, aka Thisbe

I made a total ass of myself

So, the strange cat smells continued, but I was pretty cool with that.  The lawn mowers came with their dastardy noisy machines this a.m., and therefore I retreated, as is my wont, to the cedar closet.

My mistress came home and I was just coming to greet her, when our house guest, whom I have known for years, approached with a strange cat!  We rubbed noses, and what can I say, this was NOT the cat I had expected.  I growled and spat.  He retreated.  I raised my fur and fluffed my tail out until I was huge.  I lunged.  I spat.  I growled.  I totally lost control.  Strange cat retreated to a chair in his room.  I continued my advance until herded out of the room.  I growled and spa at the guest.

My mistress said this wasn't what she had expected of a gracious hostess.  Everyone said, "well, back to square one.  We tried to do this too fast."  I sulked for a while.

Later, they opened the storeroom door, and I got another look at the strange cat.  A handsome orange Tom.  Now he spat at me.  I went into the room and climbed into his carrier; that was when he spat.  I sniffed the bedding which smell somewhat like me.  WTF?

We stared at each other for a good long time, in a kind of Mexican standoff.  Everyone seemed pleased and we both received treats.  I feel somewhat better now.

What does the morrow hold?

Thisbe

A Strange Cat is In the Storage Room

They think I don't know what's going on, that I haven't seen the bed, the litter box, the food and water in the store room.  And now a scratching post has disappeared.  A new cat smell has appeared downstairs.  I'm playing it cool and hanging out like everything is normal.

I can't go upstairs anyway, because a workman is in the house, the thing I hate most.  Strangers.  Stranger making noise.  Clumping around, disturbing a cat's peace and quiet, her most precious moments. 

I heard them talking about the new cat who was in a carrier for almost 14 hours except when he had to be taken out to go through something called security.  They said he sniffed at the litter, the food and water, snooped all over his new space and found a hidey hole where he settled down for the night.   The visitor is totally traumatized by these new non-desert surroundings and his long journey.  How glad I am not to have had his experience from yesterday. 

I empathize.  Do I look forward to meeting him?  My mistress, who titles herself, "mommy," says I must be a gracious hostess.  Quatch!  Gracious and hostess are not in my vocabulary.  Now it is time for my insulin, known in the household as my "meds."  I get a yummy treat with my meds and sometimes catnip.  Life is not all bad, especially when I am catered to and get my own way.

Moist food, fresh water, cat toys, and lots of brushing and attention.  I do like to be petted.

Thisbe  

Cat Blog Day

Sometimes I blog about the cat, and now it's the cat's turn to do a bit of kitty blogging.  Thisbe will be 11 years old next month.  She is diabetic AND fat.  It takes a long time for her to bathe her vast stomach.  She has recently lost her forever housemate, Annie, and has grieved for a month.  She's getting back to normal, but what she doesn't know if that a house guest is bringing his male cat for a month's stay. And a young guest that Thisbe has never really cottoned to is also coming.  Thisbe has always been a "fraidy cat."  Her world is going to be turned upside down.  Cats hate change.  How will Thisbe greet her new housemate?  Will she be a gracious hostess?  Share?  Is our household going to be topsy-turvy?  Stay tuned.  Rulon, the (neutered) orange male has a 12 hour trip from the West Coast today.  He won't be in a very good mood, although he is a sweetheart.  Yikes! 

How do you celebrate a cat's birthday?

Thisbe is nine years old today, a gift from a friend whose cat had a litter of kittens. S.O. brought her home in a cardboard box when she was eight weeks old and Annie, her housemate, has never forgiven me. We thought Annie needed a companion, but she said, "Big mistake! Take her back!" and wouldn't look at me for six months.

Now, they tolerate each other, although Thisbe was terribly upset when Annie had a seizure, and stopped eating for two days.

She has a new mouse and received an extra ration of catnip. We can't have a party because she hates anyone except the people she knew in her kittenhood. Workmen are the worst! A few growls and then zook! under the bed for the rest of the day.

Thisbe likes moist cat food, dry cat food, her special brand (Kookamonga) catnip, furry gray mouse toys, fresh water, cat grass, Mommy, Daddy and sleeping in the linen closet and luxurious relaxed baths on the living room rug, lying on her back and washing her paws and her chest. Bathing to classical music is best.

The life of a cat in this household is the life of Riley. Remember. Dogs have masters. Cats have staff.

Grapeshot

The Neurasthenic Go Go Dancer

There's a woman in my aerobics class that I don't much like. She's a backstabber, and has the most unpleasant smile. The always backs up three feet and screws up the rows while whoever has the misfortune (sometimes me) to be standing behind her scrabbles for floor space.



Worse, she doesn't have an honest movement. Her twee little butt shakes and hand flaps drive me crazy. The appears unable to extend an arm or a leg or move with any vigor at all. I don't know WTF she's doing, but it's not aerobics. There's 80 year olds in the class who exhibit more energy than she does.



Why do some people get under your skin? It's not even personal. Usually I like most everyone until there's a sufficient reason not to. Her I didn't like from the day I first set foot in the class. It is chemistry? Hard to say.



Enough about the aerobically challenged one.



Today is a frenzy of cooking I made french bread and a minestrone with Italian sausage. Not vegetarian of course, but muy delicioso. Tomorrow we're smoking some salmon and eating more bread and soup.



Annie the cat has escaped twice today, both times S.O.'s doing. She's enjoying the nice evening and the birds are batshit, esp the catbird. Well, whatchagonna do? She'll come in when she's hungry. Hope the cat-chasing dog doesn't spot her. The whippet.



Going upstairs to watch the Barefoot Contessta. Can't wait to see the new Julia Child movie.



Grapeshot, who expects those in an aerobics class to actually do aerobics.

Thisbe comes out of the closet

As everyone knows, Friday is Cat Blog Day

And Thisbe is out from under the bed, too. After years and years, Thisbe has finally accepted our young houseguest who appears three times a year for various vacations. Usually Thisbe spends these weeks sulking under the bed or in a closet, wherever there is darkness and privacy and one can't (Thisbe hopes) be seen or detected.

Annie is the Tabby. Thisbe is the tortoise. She has a cross on her chest, and she hopes that the Pope might visit someday, as she knows he likes cats. But I digress.

When discovered under the bed, Thisbe used to hiss, "Get outta here. My space."

While we were in Europe, we shut the bedroom doors so that Thisbe's caretaker could give her the twice daily insulin she requires. After a few days Thisbe warmed up to the caretaker and didn't hide when the front door opened and the unfamiliar tread was heard in the house.

So on this occasion of our small guest's visit, we shut the bedroom doors again. Thisbe could "hide" behind the sofa in the home office or under my computer desk or in the cedar closet. She made several appearances and let the small guest pet her, a milestone. Then, three nights ago, Thisbe approached the small guest and said, in cat, "I would like to be petted." And it was accomplished. So Thisbe has been hanging out in the home office with the rest of us. The doll house is set up here and the small guest is busy night and day rearranging dolls and furniture.

Thisbe's old terror has abated. Of course sometimes a cat still likes her privacy and a trip to the furnace room or behind the couch or especially the cedar closet is still required.

Annie is always tranquil but has been heard once this week to offer up five mad meows. Don't know what that was about. She also escaped, opening the sliding door with her paw and exclaiming, (in cat) "spring is here; free at last!"

A household with cats is a complicated one, with brooding and sulking and periods of extreme lovingness. Cats are crazy. They fit right in.

Grapeshot

Notes from All Over

Caption: A cats gotta do what a cats gotta do.

Everyone and his brother, mother-in-law, and 2nd cousins was out running errands today, after three days of snow. I have this to report:

More people are shopping at Walmart than Nordstroms, and Walmart had some pretty decent women's tee shirts for $5.00. I buy them for a) workouts and b) pajama tops. Walmart has the cheapest cat litter in the country. And the cats like it!

It used to be that baggers in a super market, unless they were totally out-of-it sixteen year olds, knew how to, well, how to bag groceries. Now, no matter the age, no matter what we say, the baggers still stick two big bottles of cranberry juice and 2 large jars to tomato sauce in the same sack. If you bring reusable bags in, as we do, and there aren't quite enough, the bagger just jams everything together. Do they ask, "Paper or plastic?" for the remainder. Nope.

It can be hard to intuit where in the store grocery items are stored. Sometimes, when you ask, the clerk knows, and sometimes, there's much head-scratching and wandering about, and it's like a treaure hunt with no map until finally, finally, the missing item is located. So far this month, barley has been the most elusive foodstuff.

The main roads are plowed, but major roads are still hard to park on, i.e. poorly plowed at the edges. This was true in Providence, where we damn near died getting across the street, over the snowbank, past the sheet of ice and in the door. Damn! This is living dangerously. My idea of living dangerously is going into town for dinner without reservations, although this year, that is probably not an issue.

Last night, still recovering from the stomach whatever, I felt like chilling on the sofa and watching some nice Christmas show. The only thing I could find was on the Grand Ol Oprey channel. A group, Clay Jar or something like that did a wonderful "Little Drummer Boy," but "O Little Town of Bethlehem" was too much of a "treatment" for me, and I looked for something else. Zilch! Can you believe it? No Christmas music the Sunday before Christmas?

This afternoon Annie gave voice to two mad meows. S.O. was her target. Where were you? Why didn't you take a nap today? She offers no quarter. Besides her tail, a cat's ears give her emotional temperature away. Of course the eyes tell their own tales. Very emotional creatures, are cats. This year they've been respectful of the tree and (most of) the ornaments. Sometimes a cats just gotta do what a cats gotta do.

More anon,

Grapeshot