* * * In keeping with my plans, I slacked yesterday. I had to get up and out to the pet store in the morning, but after finishing up there and stopping at the grocery store, I kept my ass at home and did a whole lotta nothin’. I managed to tear myself away from the computer sometime late in the morning, then watched the latest episode of Tell Me You Love Me (ball count: two) and Desperate Housewives. I kind of gave up on Desperate Housewives late last season, but decided to give it a try again, and so far I’m kind of enjoying it. I love me some Dana Delaney, though I think she’s wasted in that role. I spent about an hour with the kittens (Jesikat, the calico, is a big chicken, but came within five feet of me while I was laying on the floor (they tend to feel less threatened by me if I’m laying on the floor, I’ve noticed), which is progress), vacuumed the downstairs, spent some quality surfing time on the internet, and washed the comforter that goes on the guest bedroom bed, which one of the cats was kind enough to barf all over. (At least they waited ’til the guests had left, I’ll give ’em that.) At one point during the day, I looked outside to see that it was raining pretty hard (yay!), and Frick had flown from the chicken yard into the backyard, and he was just standing there, looking all miserable, getting wet. I went out with a cup of cracked corn, walked to the chicken yard (he always follows me like a little puppy when I walk anywhere in the back yard because he LURVES me), opened the gate, tossed the cracked corn into the chicken yard, and he literally ran around in circles trying to figure out how to get inside the chicken yard. With me standing there holding the gate wide open. Bless his fluffy little head, he’s not the brains of the outfit, for sure. He figured it out, I went in and checked for eggs, and then shut the gate to the chicken yard on my way out. He stayed in there, under the rain shelter, with his sisters for the rest of the day. (Note: Yes, Frick is a “she”, but I’ve been calling her “he” for too long to change my ways, now.)
Toms, hanging out on the air conditioning unit.
Stinkerbelle (whom I have taken to calling “Prissy” for some unknown reason) loves to play with the strings on my apron.
In the yard, Miz Poo keeps a watchful eye out for troublemakers.
Hetty McHetterson.
“Hey! Where ya goin’? Can I go too?”
Harbl airin’ is a daily requirement at Crooked Acres.
A scattering of kitties.
Miz Poo keeps an eye on Dem Chickenz.
“What?”
“I hets dem chickens. I just wants to touch ’em with da fangers, and dey clucks and runs away. Het.”
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I got an email from another woman who volunteers for the shelter. She’s actually an adoption counselor on adoption nights at the pet store. She said that she ran into Gilligan and Spanky (and their owner, of course) at the vet. They were in for a well kitty checkup, and the owner loves them to death. They’re adapting well, are very friendly, and like being petted, though they still don’t like being picked up.
I love a happy ending, especially for that bunch – considering how feral they were when I got them, I’m so glad they’re doing so well!
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“Hey. HEY! Is there snackin’ going on down there?!”
“BwahahahaHA! I went over by Rhian and I farted, and then I ran away, and when The Man picked her up so The Mean Lady could give her that nasty medicine, he was all ‘Did you poot, little tortie?’ and she was SO EMBARRASSED!”
“Hey LADY! Where’s my SNACK?!”
“I’m not seeing any snack on that plate. Am I going to have to get mean?”
“Bob. BOB! Hey, Bob! Look, you got any of the good stuff? I had me some snack and I’m all comfy and full, and I need me some ‘nip to take me all the way to HappyLand. Jesikat says you’ve got the best stuff around. Don’t hold out on me, man!”