The temperatures around here have gone from in the 50s last week to in the 80s this week.
(I’m not complaining.)
We’ve had several partly sunny days in a row, and there’s no chance of rain for the foreseeable future. I’m beginning to have real hope that our property will actually dry up, at least the swamp in the blue coop yard and the swamp in the pig yard and the swamp in the side yard in front of the garage.
Since the weather’s been so nice, I’ve been hanging our laundry on the line to dry. One day last week, Fred took a t-shirt out of his drawer – a t-shirt I’d washed at least 5 days prior – and put it on. Then he was promptly stung by a motherfucking wasp.
Hardy creatures, those motherfucking wasps. Needless to say, it didn’t last long after it had stung him and dropped to the floor; he stomped on it and tossed it in the trash.
So I’ve been particularly careful when I get dressed in the morning. I shake out the shirt of the day and look inside the sleeves before I pull it over my head.
Yesterday I did just that, pulled the shirt over my head, and then levitated about three feet off the floor when something dropped onto my foot. It turned out to be a piece of straw. How it got inside my shirt, I have no idea. I was stung by a wasp last year for the first time in my life, and it hurt like a motherfucker. I’d prefer not to repeat the experience.
Tammy asked if Fergus Simon (heh, I almost called him “Rufus Simon”!) allows belly rubs. Indeed he does – but if there’s too much of it, he’ll eventually sink his teeth and claws into your hand and he’s got a strong little bunny kick that could probably tear your hand to shreds if you’re not quick enough to pull away.
Rebekah asked if the kittens ever squeal when they’re in the litter box. Some of them cry a little when they first get into the litter box. They cry, dig a little, get into position, cry, dig a little more, get into position, cry, and so on. Once they’re actually doing their business, though, they’re usually completely silent. I like to imagine they’re thinking about what good boys (or girl) they are, using the litter box like they’re supposed to!
Thus far I’ve only seen one litter box accident when, I imagine, the kitten couldn’t get to the litter box on time. At this point in time, I am slowly moving the litter boxes toward the closet, a few inches every day. My ultimate goal is to get all the litter boxes in the closet and (I hope) confine the litter scatter to the closet.
Someone – a couple of someones, maybe – asked if Dorothy could/ would become a permanent resident. She will not and can not, because have I mentioned we have 14 cats? Dorothy will go up for adoption after she’s been spayed in a few weeks. Rufus is also not going to become a permanent resident, as space has opened up at Petsmart and I’ll be leaving here in a little while to drop him off.
I’m going to miss Rufus (well, and Dorothy when she goes, of course). Can you believe we’ve had Rufus here for two months now? This is the part I always hate, because I’m pretty sure that in his mind Rufus believes he’s home already; he doesn’t know (and we can’t explain to him) that it was just a stop on the way to his forever home.
Such the pretty boy.
So tense, though. I wish you’d relax, Rufus!
“I’m borrrrrred. When can I bust out of this clambake?” Soon, pretty girl.
Declan, in the process of catching and killing a North American Gray Hoodie. What a smart boy!
Macushla, waiting patiently for the belly rub.
Declan and his fancy white bathing suit.
“Pardon me. You has a snuggle for me?” (Finnegan)
I love how, at this age, when you rub their bellies, they think about it for a moment, then begin vigorously grooming themselves.
“I KEEL YOU!”
“Okay, I’ll let you snuggle me. BUT I WON’T LIKE IT ONE LITTLE BIT.”
Miz Poo, taking a snooze in the sun.
Previously
2010: Why do I bother buying cat toys, again? (Oh, right. It’s an illness!)
2009: No entry.
2008: No entry.
2007: I call you people SKIMMERS, because we have SOLD the house, fools.
2006: I NEED MY VEGGING TIME, PEOPLE!
2005: We call him… FANG!
2004: Who has more fun that me, kids? That’s right, NO ONE!
2003: No entry.
2002: I think I’ll call him Fredriq, and make him talk in a French accent and squeal with excitement while he’s doing it.
2001: Your shoes are not lined up exactly, and what’s this?? A PIECE OF GRASS ON THE BOTTOM OF YOUR SHOE??? TO THE DUNGEON WITH YOU!”
2000: Exhausting!