Tales from the Shark Tank

Dearest Fluffbrain,

If you want me to fill that bowl, get your furry face out of it.

prrip?

Yes, Cloud, I am talking to you. Kitty food will not go through a kitty head. The bone is solid, even if there is nothing but fluff inside it.

prrrreow?

Yes, of course I still love you. You’re my sweet cuddly calico babygirl. But the fact remains that you have, if anything, more fluff on the inside of your little head than on the outside of it.

Never mind. Enjoy your breakfast.

Love,

The Self Propelled Food Dispenser.

As has been often observed in this blog, Miss Cloud is quite the clown.   She ran true to form when I decided to practice my camera skills on her.  It’s a new camera, one which my friend Rana helped me choose.  (Thanks, Rana!)  This included investigating the wrist strap even as I attempted to focus on her.

“Watcha doin’, Mommy?

My mom made a comment about not knowing what my cats looked like. So in order to remedy that, I’ll be snapping photos of them as they consent to hold still for it. Tornado posed first, so here she is.

“Now what, Mom?”

Dear Miss Cloud,

Please don’t give me dirty looks for laughing at you. I couldn’t help it. You looked like Dick Van Dyke doing that signature roll over the ottoman during the opening of the show.

I do know what you were trying to do. You were trying to jump on the bed, as you’ve done several hundred times before. You gave your little chirruping trill of warning, wriggled your patchwork quilt design butt, and leapt – and almost missed. So you grabbed the quilt with your claws and kicked off with those strong back legs again. Trouble is, you overcompensated and arrived on the bed in a classic somersault, rolling tail over nose and arriving on your back.

I know, I wasn’t even supposed to notice the manner of your arrival, let alone laugh out loud. I couldn’t help it. It was so magnificently klutzy.

Grace, thy name is not Cloud.

1. Please stop playing with the mice so much that you let them get away. There are several reasons for this.

• Cleaning up mousie remains when they die in places they can access but you cannot is difficult and unpleasant at best.
• The frantic squeaking at 3:00 a.m. is extremely disruptive of human sleep.
• It is disconcerting to know that there was a mousie, but that we don’t know where it went or what condition it was in.

2. Once Mommy has found the tiny baby mousie that escaped you (it was hiding in the laundry, ladies) and captured it in a glass, it is no longer yours. It is mine, to dispose of as I see fit. If you can find it after I’ve dumped it out in the soybean field, you may catch and eat it, but I am not giving you the chance to lose it again!

Human readers: I know the most effective method of mouse disposal would have been to introduce the wee beastie to our septic system, but I just can’t do that to something that’s looking up at me.

Some days move too fast to do more than note the high(?) points.  Yesterday was like that.

• Box arrived bearing large Lego kit, a gift for my son.  Opened box.  Son began screaming in delight: “yes, Yes, YES, YES, YES!” while dancing madly around the kitchen.  When shrieking and attendant maternal laughter slowed down, called to thank grandparents for gift.  Son managed the call with restraint and dignity, then went back to dancing.  Babbled about new kit for half an hour before he actually calmed down enough to, oh, say, open it? (Note: next morning, greeted the day with more thoughts on the wonderfulness of the kit. *grin*)
• Mid-morning temps in the mid 70s made a perfect day to go ride my newly tuned and adjusted bike.  Removed bike from garage.
• Heard plaintive laments from roofed cat.  Sophia, this time – usually it’s Tornado (sometimes multiple times in any given day.  Up tree = fun.  Down tree, not so much.)  Went in to retrieve Sophia via attic window.  Cloud got behind me, then jumped blithely out window using nearest human shoulder for springboard.
• Now two cats on roof.  Sophia came to me two minutes after Cloud’s escape.  Cloud took another 40 minutes or so to coax in, finally lured by opening can of cat food in her sight.  Came to sniff and was duly nabbed.
• Actually took bike ride, with boychild jogging alongside.  Temps now in low 80s and muggy.  Fortunately bike creates own breeze.
• Came in, drank water, took shower.
• While drying off from shower, heard prolonged and alarming thumping from kitchen.  Shouted inquiry as to cause.   Son’s response: “I’m trying to climb the wall.  I can’t do it.  I guess I need climbing equipment.”  Boy was serious.  Eeek!  Mr. Literal was trying to enact common figure of speech.
• Took wall-climbing boy swimming as suitable outlet for energy.  Listened to chatter about wonders of new kit and plans for same for duration of drive.
• Came home, listening to chatter about wonders of new kit and plans for same for duration of drive.
• Greeted husband on return from overnight trip.
• Talked to friend.
• Mommy fall down go boom.

Not my cats, certainly.

Miss Cloud, who is not allowed outside, has suddenly taken to ducking past ankles at every opportunity to attempt to explore the Tall Grass Jungle and Land of New Smells. Today when she did that, her sister Tornado was out as well. Now, those two can’t manage a civil conversation at the best of times, and Tornado, experienced outdoorswoman that she is, decided it would be fun to give Cloud a hard time. So every time Cloud stopped to sniff something, Tornado would bounce at her, stopping just short of pouncing on her when Cloud jumped away. The problem is that she was doing that as I was trying to walk calmly up to Cloud with intent to pick her up and return her to the safety of the house.

After the fourth time I got close, only to have Tornado startle Cloud into running away again, I looked down at the little black cat looking up at me. “Tornado” I told her “you aren’t helping.” She sat down on her little butt, blinked at me, and said “Mreow?” with an unmistakable cat-smirk. Then she got up, chased Cloud one last time, and sauntered off with a glance over her shoulder at me.

The next time I tried to get to Cloud and pick her up, I was able to without any problem. I’m not sure, though, whether Tornado’s commentary translated best as “So?” or “And your point is?” I don’t suppose it much matters what the English is, though. The sentiment was clear enough in the original Cat.

Every so often I really listen to myself and hear my own habits of speech. The way I speak of my cats is a perfect case in point. Ever since Cloud stood on my hand and hissed defiance at the two adult cats, I’ve referred to Tornado and Sophia collectively as “the big girls”. Our son will come in from school and inquire as to the whereabouts of the cats, to be told “Both the big girls are out, and Cloud is on the bathroom windowsill.” Or at bedtime, I will find myself telling him “I don’t know where the big girls are. Can you make do with the baby-girl?” (It’s a make-do because Miss Cloud won’t stay to cuddle until he falls asleep. Sophia is the best about that.)

So my grey-scale cats are “the big girls”, despite the fact that Cloud is a quarter again bigger than either Tornado or Sophia. And since I don’t see myself changing the verbal habit any time soon, I suspect they always will be.

I was pulling laundry out of the dryer and folding it a little bit ago, in preparation for tossing in the next load of soggy stuff.  That hardly requires much attention, so I was just letting my hands work on autopilot while my mind wandered, not even bothering to look as I reached for the next thing.  So you may imagine my surprise (and amusement) when I reached in and found my hand full of very soft, very warm fur.  To compound matters, the occupant of the fur in question turned to bump my hand with a very solid little skull and immediately started to purr like a diesel engine, an effect magnified by the echo chamber created by the dryer.  I looked in, to find a wide-eyed calico face with big innocent green eyes looking back at me.

I’m well accustomed, by now, to finding my girls asleep in a laundry basket, but Cloud evidently decided there was no good purpose to waiting for it to be put in the basket when there was this perfectly good cave going to waste.  Either that, or she felt her fur to be in need of an air fluff.  I’ve been writing this while I waited for her to jump out of the dryer.  Now that she’s wandered by, it’s probably safe to toss the wet laundry in, so that our boychick can wear what he wants to school tomorrow.

Part of our son’s bedtime delaying tactics ritual is the Catching of a Cat.  He says they purr him to sleep.  Their opinion of the proceeding is clear in the fact that as soon as he says “I need to catch a cat”, Sophia disappears under the couch, Cloud finds an elsewhere to be, and Tornado curls up in a dark closet corner, where her black fur conceals her in the shadows.

Our Boy remains undaunted.  Denied easy opportunity by the cats themselves, he enlists parental assistance.  Addressing the living room at large, he asks “would someone call a cat please?”  This is supposed to be my cue, but last night my husband was feeling impish.  So he sat in his chair, saying “cats?  Any cat come here?  Oh, ca-ats!” in the blandest tone imaginable, while grinning at His Boyness.  J. and I both cracked up, as Dad continued his “calling”.  Then it was my turn, as recognized champion Cat Caller.

As J. stood watching in the middle of the living room, I trilled.  Once.  Not another word, hadn’t picked up the treat jar, didn’t move.  Each cat responded according to her personality and cattitude.  Sophia came out from under the couch and gave a ladylike mew from just behind the corner of my chair, like a dignified young woman responding “here” to roll call.  Tornado came out and sauntered over, pausing to stretch when she was about three feet away before strolling the remaining distance to me.  “I just happened to be wandering this direction, and thought I would pay my regards”, she tells me as she jumps up on the arm of my chair.

The award for speed and theatricality went to Cloud.  She’d gone upstairs.  She came thundering down the stairs (she is not light on her feet), and dashed through the kitchen and living room, nearly knocking the Big Noisy Boy-kitten down in her enthusiasm.  She skidded to a stop (a neat trick on carpet), to jump up on the couch and walk around the back to get to me.

They all got treats and pettings, and Tornado permitted J. to pick her up and take her with him to bed.  Sophia, having gotten her treat and affection first, went back under the couch as he approached.  Cloud settled down to purr nearby.  And my position as cat-caller supreme remains secure.