Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
For the sake of context, our house number is 245. This was written in May 2018.
The military operation of #245 seems to have gone askew over the past few months. As I stroll about our fortress, checking things over for the spring, I have noticed that order has fallen and I see certain things that have snuck up on me.
For instance, there is a bag of kibble sitting in the back bedroom, open and just sort of leaning against something, and every now and again I hear a light ‘crunching’ noise coming from somewhere down the hall. I’ll mute whatever I’m watching and listen intently, but I’ve never really found the source of the noise. Getting up off of my chair was never an option.
Bru drew my attention to it one day when he remarked that the cats were eating the kibble directly out of the bag. I was shocked since there was always a full bowl of said kibble sitting on the floor in the kitchen. Oh yes, they were eating that too, but it is the ill-gotten gains that taste so sweet. To be perfectly honest, THE HEIFER doesn’t even really like this type of kibble, but now that I had become aware of the situation, I myself noticed her broad back bellying up to the bag a few times.
I firmly believe that it isn’t the kibble, it’s the stealing of the kibble that is the draw.
Next, THE HEIFER gets her treats at precisely 6:00 PM. She knows it. We know it. Her lawyer knows it. The SPCA knows it. The contract was copied to all interested parties and was signed by all. It was witnessed by the Mayor.
So THE HEIFER will begin her campaigning earlier than 6:00, but I believe that is just to warm us up and get us in the mood to get off our butts and farm out the treats into her bowl. So it is not unusual to see her arrive in the treat-al area at around 5:30 PM.
We let her do her tricks, laying on her back, holding her dish up by one claw, pushing the empty dish across the floor until it is in the middle of the kitchen, that kind of thing. It’s fun.
But just this past week she started her program at 1:00 PM. I again found myself standing over this black, rather rotund cat, pointing at my watch and explaining the difference between 1 PM and 6 PM to a pair of completely uninterested and unblinking green eyes. She couldn’t have looked more bored. So I just told her to get lost.
Now, in her defense, Bru and I have been sick for about a week and we have been trying to out-cough each other. We have been trapped together in the house with a whole lotta meds and no one to answer to, so THE HEIFER may have seen the future and it probably wasn’t pretty.
My guess is that her begging for treats at 1 PM was her defense mechanism telling her that these two human lunatics can barely look after her when they are healthy so things weren’t looking so rosy for her right now and she had better get some opposable thumbs moving and get some nutrition going before one or both of us over-medicates and dies.
But this is just one more example of how the tightly wound machine of #245 is slipping. Treats at 1:00 PM indeed. Tragically, I had the opportunity to see myself in the mirror recently and instantly understood her fears. So I started handing out treats at 3:00 PM. Seemed like a good half-way point for everyone.
Bru and I have both started feeling a bit better since then and THE HEIFER has let up on her 1 PM self-survival time, but not by much.
Abby, the Village Idiot, has also strayed from her usual routine of late and has taken to sleeping inside the cat condo which is located right outside the main bathroom in the hallway. Sounds normal, but that condo makes an excellent place for Bru’s socks, for when his nurses are getting him dressed in the morning. So she just gets in there with all the socks and sleeps for hours, snoring and shedding. When Bru comes out in the morning, his feet just look like little size 10 Abbys.
Then we had that horrible wind storm here in late May. Bru and I were still sick and we were just kind of sitting there watching things fly past the patio doors; small branches, cows, stuff like that. We weren’t worried yet but then I looked over and Abby was sitting in the kitchen sink. Just sitting there. I suggested that she was taking shelter from some oncoming tornado, every man for himself, and all that. Seemed like a good idea to me, if I was a cat; that’s probably where I would go.
So once we are both back on our feet again, I’ve got to tighten up this ship and re-write the rules for #245. We will have a big meeting, Reggie will make comments like ‘Chicken in your bum’ and he will laugh like a demented clown. The cats won’t even attend. But we will get things under control around here once and for all. I just know it.