The True Bloods are just the total rulers of the house lately, it seems. They allow Fred to put them in their room at bedtime (not without some complaints, mind you), but the instant they hear my feet hit the floor in the morning, they’re demanding to be let out. They’ve completely taken over my desk (Miz Poo does not appreciate this development), and they follow me from room to room. If they sense that I’m cleaning out the litter boxes, they come running in to wait for me to finish so that they can then climb into the litter boxes and befoul them anew.
(I’ve learned to scoop, go off to do something for a few minutes, and then go back and scoop again. Spoiled brats, is what they are.)
It’s hard to be too annoyed with them, though. They’re always happy to be snatched up for a snuggle and a kiss, and Hoyt and Terry crack me up with their complaints if they’re disturbed whilst sleeping.
You think Fred would notice if they just stayed here forever? I could shrug and say “I don’t know, there’s just no room at the pet store yet! I know, I know it’s been two years. Weird, huh?”
Speaking of Fred, Saturday morning he was sitting at his desk eating breakfast, and I was sitting at my desk eating breakfast, and then suddenly I heard a muffled scream coming from his direction. It turns out that Lafayette had leapt up and sunk his claws into Fred’s back (through his t-shirt) and then just hung there. And Fred had just taken a bite of his breakfast, so he couldn’t do anything but scream a wordless, muffled scream of pain.
“I would have expected a much higher-pitched scream,” I said to Fred, and then I laughed until I cried.
Hey, I couldn’t help it – something about that scream was HILARIOUS.
Sam, Hoyt and Bill, in the cat bed on my desk.
Smilin’ Hoyt.
Happy Sam.
Happy Hoyt.
The Wonkas have all gotten the knack of climbing up onto the kitty condo and onto the bed in the guest bedroom. So now I go into the room and lay down on the bed, and they all climb up on the bed and snuggle with me, and it is HEAVEN.
I sure do love those sweet little monkeys.
“I has a TOY and it is MINE.”
“Look, YOU. I want a bottle and I want it NOW, and if I’m still demanding a bottle when I’m six months old, you’d best HOP TO IT, you feel me?”
“Hey. HEY. If she gets a bottle, I get one too, right? RIGHT?”
“I am but a poor wee helpless kitten and I need a bottle to make me strong.”
The girls have learned the skill of climbing up my leg. They generally give up about the time they reach my knee, but I know the time is coming when they’re going to climb up all the way to my face. And then I will be in TROUBLE.
When I placed that pile of flour sack towels on top of the canning cabinet in the dining room, it was not my intention to leave the pile there. It was further not my intention for the cats to consider it a cozy place to lay. I’m guessing it doesn’t so much matter what I intended, but rather what the cats prefer. Here, Tommy‘s keeping the towels warm for Stinkerbelle (who’s usually the cat laying there).
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Previously
2008: Marion, the torbie of hissiness.
2007: No entry.
2006: No entry.
2005: No, we aren’t adopting him ( <—–LIE)