Binks and Mr. Bond continue to be the joys of my life. Even when I have to spend an hour trying to vacuum their black fur off my cream colored furniture.
So this weekend when I had no special plans for my extra time off, I did my usual Saturday afternoon event. I came home from McD’s, scrubbed off the eau de grease, and took a nap. Only, this time I took my nap on the couch. Not on purpose, mind you. I sat on the couch to spend a few minutes with them before going to my room, where the fan was blowing on high and the pillows were calling my name.
I was hoping that if I spent a few minutes with them first, they would let me take my nap in peace instead of spending the entire time trying to dig me out of my room by banging the bedroom door.
Well, I got a nice long nap right there on the couch. Binks, the primary perpetrator of all Kitty-Enforced Naps, climbed up onto to my lap to give a verbal lashing for earning money to feed to him. In the process, he began purring and padding, as cats do. Not long after that, I was comatose on the sofa with a throw blanket, a cat, and a pile of pillows under my feet.
So much for my brief nap with the alarm set so I would wake up and have a Saturday later on…
I slept until about 4:00. I got up in time to feed the fur-bellies and decide I didn’t want to do laundry after all. Sunday turned out to be a repeat of Saturday. Usually Sundays are much easier at McD’s, but not this time. The Daytona 500 was happening about an hour north of here and my location is right on one of the primary routes from South FL to Daytona. We were packed since before we opened. When I got home the thought of laundry never even entered my mind.
I did take my usual nap, though—in my bed, under covers, with pillows, but without the alarm set. When I got up, I fed us all and watched the movies I had rented. Rather, I slept through the movies I had rented because…a cat was on my lap.
Monday I had the option of working at Summit. As much as I needed to be there closing calls, my body and spirit needed a day off a lot worse. So I took the day off. I slept in until 8 am, then read my book in bed until about 9. Eventually, I crawled to the surface and came out to give the fur bellies their morning treats. Then, I went to breakfast at Cracker Barrel, just beyond the interstate, and I followed that with a stimulating visit to Wal-Mart (the social center of Titusville on the weekends and all federal holidays) for groceries.
One of the things on my list to buy was kitty litter, so I made my way over to the pet isle and picked up a 30-poiund box. While there I spied an item that peaked my interest—especially since it claimed to be the cure for my black fur/cream furniture curse. It’s this flat piece of wood (carpeted of course) with a bristly wire piece that forms an arch in the middle of it. The bristly part is supposed to be fun for cats to rub against; it’s supposed to catch their fur like a great big brush and hold it there until you suck it off with a vacuum. Oh, and it has a compartment where you hide catnip to lure your cats into its clutches.
I bought into it 100%, and I bought it and brought it home. I figured “Hey, it’s only 14 bucks. If it works, I’ve saved myself hours of labor and frustration. If it doesn’t, I’ve wasted 14 bucks.”
I’m glad it was the last thing to come in the door. And I’m glad my cats don’t have claws. It was obvious that I would have to put it together before I could put my groceries away. The cats were circling it like it was their prey and they were wild cats from the outback. Every now and then they slinked up close enough to bat at it and take a deeper whiff. When I took the two pieces out of the box to assemble it, they began attacking the box in earnest. Before I had snapped the two pieces together (very complex design) Mr. Bond had crawled inside the 2-inch-deep box and flattened himself out like a squashed toad on the pavement. All I could see were his back paws and his tail sticking out of the box lid, and every now and then the box would hop a little where he attacked (nothing) the inside walls of it.
Being the notorious cat tormentor that I am, I couldn’t resist the urge to play “slap at the cat’s behind when he’s stuck in a box that’s too small for him.” So, I made a “fftt” noise and poked at his rump. I never would have believed he could get out of that box that fast and that easily. I think he actually turned around inside it. My Dad loves to call him the little clown because he looks so comical with some of the things he does. Dad would have laughed his butt off if he’d witnessed that moment.
Finally, the cat-nip scrubby thing with carpet and bristles was put together and I left the cats to explore it while I put away my groceries. The box took a bit more of a beating as each time the cats traded places (a different cat won the battle of possession of the cat-nip) the loser took it out on the box.
By the time the groceries were all stowed I had to pull the box remnants away from Mr. Bond so I could walk to the dumpster with it. I wasn’t leaving it in the house to be further demolished and make even MORE of a cardboard mess on my carpet.
As I watched the cats get to know their new friend, I anticipated, with great élan, the joy of not having to vacuum my couch and love seat so often…
I should have seen it coming. They loved it, that was clear. But the bristly part didn’t get nearly the attention the rest of it did. The carpeted wood piece was the container of the cat-nip, and therefore was the source of all of life’s joy and pleasure. The base could be worshipped and loved upon with no limitations. And it was.
But the arch of bristly blackness just stuck up off the top of the base like…well…like an arch of bristly blackness. It bore no special feature to draw the attention of the drug-addict fur-bellies. Except for the 30 seconds Mr. Bond spent scraping his chin along it. I’ll have to keep an eye out for that to make sure he doesn’t tear his chin up again.
So now it is Tuesday night. I’ve had a long day made worse by system problems at work on the first day back after a 3-day weekend…in the financial industry.
After work, I stopped in at the nail place and got a fill and had my claws shortened (so I could type), then I came home and ignored all the good food I’d cooked up this weekend. I warmed up a bowl of Chef Boyardee mini ravioli and had a glass of wine and a slice of white bread with butter on it while I watched “Ladder 49”—an excellent movie that I highly recommend viewing.
As I watched the movie, the cats took turns climbing up in my face (because I should be looking at them and not some silly cry-movie) and curling up on the floor with at least one paw touching the new cat-nip of wonderful goodness at all times.
Life with cats. There’s another way to live? I don’t think so.
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