Tales from the Shark Tank

That I’ve been wishing for a cat is no secret. Evidently the cats were listening too. I seem to have been adopted by a familiar feline. There is a small pure grey female, just the color of grey velvet, who has taken to sitting outside one or the other of the glass doors into the house and mewing. She has a small voice, but when I went out to her this evening she was quite talkative. She was also endlessly affectionate, begging to be petted, walking up into my lap as I sat on the step. She did not want me to hold her; she just wanted to curl up there and be stroked. And she purred, endlessly and quite audibly. I’ve never heard a purr like it; it has a little chirpy sound in it. She does not seem to want to come into the house, which is just as well because I’m not sure I’d have the strength of will to put her out again.

Our son sat by the door watching her for half an hour or more, explaining to her very earnestly that we couldn’t bring her inside because the owner’s rule was that we couldn’t have pets in the house. I thought that was what kept her, but he went to bed and she didn’t wander off. She’s still out there now, by the door into the living room, mewing at me to come back and pet her some more.

I’m considering opening the shed a bit so that she has a place to take shelter and putting out food for her. She’s already an outdoor cat; it wouldn’t be an adjustment for her, at least. But I’ve not named her. If I do, then she’ll be mine. We’ll go to the vet and make sure kittens aren’t next on the agenda, and then I’ll do the best I can under the limitations I have. I’m going back down to Indianapolis to officiate at a friend’s wedding. When I get back, on Sunday evening, will be time enough for decisions on a velvet grey cat.

Update: The cat was still here in the morning, so determined to get in that she climbed the screen door, thus telling me that if I ever make her an inside cat she’ll have to have her weaponry modified. Our son tried to pet her, but she wanted nothing to do with him. (So much for getting a pet for his sake.) Me, on the other hand, she came right up to, putting her head under my hand for scritching. Before I leave for Indy, I’ll be acquiring cat food, a pair of bowls sturdy enough to stand up to being outside, and possibly the smallest size dog-gloo type doghouse. If she can’t come in to me, I can go out to her. Our son has named her Sophia.

You know that shriek you heard from the general vicinity of northern Indiana? The one that ran something along the lines of “WhOOt”? That was me. Our house is formally, finally and officially sold. The money is in our bank. The utilities are out of our name. It is now and forever more Someone Else’s Responsibility.

HOORAY!

Now, to head for the hardware store. There’s some shelving there with my name on it.

This was an interesting weekend. I drove down to Indy with two things to accomplish. One was to take the first steps to cleaning up my parents house; the other was to attend the closing on our former abode. Both were duly accomplished, but neither is complete.

My mother wanted me to start with the kitchen, and since it did not matter at all to me where I started, I did that. I didn’t finish, but I think I removed more stuff than they can replace in a week (three trash barrels full) and managed to get empirical proof that there actually is a table under all the stuff. I mean, I could sort of see legs (there being stuff under and around the table as well as on top), but had nothing to tangible to show that there was a flat surface atop them. Now I do. The area under the table is pretty much clear, around it is much less cluttered, and the top no longer sends cascades sliding majestically onto the pile between the table and the counter each time it’s touched. Mom tried briefly to help, then opined that she was only slowing me down and should let me work, and got out of my way. She took a chair and talked to me, but that’s fine. It doesn’t prevent me from picking things up and either dropping them in the box to keep (a very small percentage), tossing them directly into a trash bag, or popping them through their shredder, which I may have broken by the end of the afternoon. Dad responded to something he found very stressful (my cleaning) in his usual fashion: he went to sleep for about four hours. So I just kept going, picking things up and making snap decisions about them. Most of it required no brain at all, like the bank records from 1988 or the dpartment store charge card bills marked “paid” in 1990, sent to their address at an apartment they haven’t lived in since autumn of that year, in some cases for stores that went out of business years ago. I did wonder how those had ended up on the kitchen table, but in the end it doesn’t matter. What matters is that they did end up there, and are now disposed of. I finally folded after six hours of it, very tired but still wired, and went out to dinner with part of my chosen family. I have to be back in Indy next weekend as well, having promised to perform a wedding, and have promised my folks Round 2 on Sunday. I won’t work as long, since I’ll have to drive home, but I think I can finish the kitchen in another four hours. Even if that proves to have been overly optimistic, I can make a further major dent. The thing that I see, though, is that given my schedule this will take months to accomplish. I’d like a wand to wave, but I’ve none that’s effective against pure mess.

This morning found myself and my father-in-law, both dressed up and looking remarkably lawyerly, sitting in the office of a title company. The agent seemed a trifle intimidated when she first walked in, but when she realized that neither of us was there as counsel all was well. She commented that it was much easier to get through the closing when she didn’t have to explain anything to half the parties to the transaction. We should be done, but the banks are closed today, so the final release of money can’t be accomplished until tomorrow. Sometime on Tuesday, a large sum of money should magically appear in our checking account. We have opted for wire transfer, as I would spend far more in gas to drive down and pick up the check. But once it arrives, I have plans. They involve shelves and clear storage tubs, so that I can get down to organizing the attic. And maybe then I can get the boxes that still festoon my livingroom unpacked at last.

I just stumbled across this. I guess I’m going to have to be careful how I dispose of the mice….

My friend Rana has given me a vote of confidence in the Mouse War Epic. I really appreciate it, but I can’t help but think of how much success the schemes of the illimitable Mr. Coyote had – or didn’t, as the case may be. I have to admit, my imagination has indeed been working overtime on this problem. I have, for example, considered partially filling a bucket, running a ramp up to it strewn with breadcrumbs, and then running a piece of paper with more breadcrumbs across the top. My luck, though, the mouse will be light enough that the paper will either support its weight or fall in such a way as to provide a path back out of the bucket.

Meanwhile, I’ve taken another suggestion and elaborated upon it. Peanut butter is now smeared directly in the traps, rather than on a cracker. However, it’s smeared on the inside of the top of the trap, so that (I hope) the mouse has to put a paw as well as its head inside, thus (again with the hope) insuring its demise.

Hmm. With all the “hopes” in there, that does look rather like a scheme worthy of the good Mr. Coyote. But the mousetraps were not manufactured by Acme, nor was the peanut butter. So maybe, just maybe, it will work a little better.

Update:  My husband got up at an unholy hour this morning to find that one of the traps I set yesterday had gained an occupant.  Both mouse and trap have been consigned to the trash.  Traps are cheap, and neither of us wanted to touch the rodent.  Hey, I’ve already had more success than Ol’ Wile E.

I just had a conversation with my landlady. She’s rethinking letting me have a cat. It’s not me, really; it’s our predecessors. They were irresponsible and left their cat alone in the house for a week, and an animal that had been well behaved up to that time became, you should pardon the expression, pissy. All over the walls, all over the carpets, all over everything. That’s why we have new carpet in the house, and why it is very short-napped. (I knew the carpet was new, but not why it had been replaced. Didn’t think about it, really; just figured it was time.)

So now, because someone else was irresponsible, I can’t have a cat until every other option for mouse expulsion or destruction has failed. I don’t blame my landlady for being worried, I really don’t. But I’m really disappointed.