I haven't felt like doing much of anything except nap and eat for the past week. There have been fewer demands to go outside, although I've forced the British One to go out with me once or twice, just to keep him on his toes.
Mostly I have just wanted to nap on the sofa, which has caused the British One a spot of trouble in the evenings, because I insist on napping in what he mistakenly believes to be "his spot." Well obviously this is faulty thinking, because it is MY spot.
He should know by now that EVERY spot in the house is MY spot, to be relinquished whenever required. As I am usually ensconced in the spot well before he decides to sit down, I think he has no humanly right to forcibly remove me-- and I have told him so on several recent occasions. Whenever I make my displeasure known, however, I am called "Grumble Butt."
HOW RUDE!
There are two other sofas on which to sit in the lounge, so why is it that he should always want the very spot where I am happily napping? Why can I not voice my opinion on the matter without the situation deteriorating to name-calling?
It seems my sleep is always being disrupted. It's no wonder I am so tired!
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Back to Normal?
After a several week absence, the British One turned up yesterday. I have been looking forward to his return, as it means I will not be lonely during the day, and more importantly, I will be fed an extra helping of delicious diced chicken for lunch!
As pleased as I was to see him, I played it cool and acted as if I had no earthly idea who he was when he came through the door laden with smug looking suitcases. Oh he made quite a fuss over me and told me how much he had missed me (as well he should!) but I just gave him a blank stare as if to say "Who are you?"
I couldn't keep up the pretense for long, however, and soon I was ensconced on his lap, purring mightily.
As pleased as I was to see him, I played it cool and acted as if I had no earthly idea who he was when he came through the door laden with smug looking suitcases. Oh he made quite a fuss over me and told me how much he had missed me (as well he should!) but I just gave him a blank stare as if to say "Who are you?"
I couldn't keep up the pretense for long, however, and soon I was ensconced on his lap, purring mightily.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
A Day In The Life
Softie and I have fallen into a nice little routine, which gives me great pleasure. I do love a routine, as it helps me to schedule my day between eating and napping.
Each morning Softie prepares for me a delicious dish of diced chicken, opens the blinds on the front window, and give me the first set of eye drops. By the time she walks out the front door I have finished my morning meal (leaving a bit for later, of course) and have situated myself on the back of leather sofa #2, where I watch her walk to the bus stop at the end of our street.
After she has climbed into the belly of the bus, I turn my attention to the next door neighbor, who leaves in a little metal monster parked at the curb. Each morning when he opens the front door, I can hear the evil Mooch begging him not to leave. He carries on, yelping and pleading, until the metal monster is out of sight. One would think he would understand the routine by now, but then again, he IS a dog.
I next turn my attention to the humans across the street from our neighbors. Their morning routine includes letting outside their huge, fluffy Burmese, who sniffs the house perimeter and then lounges on the front porch, and taking their Pug-ly little dog, Elvis, for a walk. As far as barkers go, I don’t mind Elvis too much, as I rarely hear a peep out of him. He seems genuinely chuffed to be allowed out in public with a face like that.
After Elvis passes my house, I nap until being rudely awakened by the postman throwing piles of magazines through our door. This is my signal to go and have a mid-morning snack and prepare myself for the arrival outdoors of The Don. If it is cold outside The Don doesn’t appear (bit like a groundhog, that little old lady) and I go upstairs and nap on the duvet until well into the afternoon. If the weather is nice I, along with the squirrels and the rest of the neighborhood, await the arrival of The Don.
Softie comes home in the afternoon, waves to The Don, gives me eye drop #2, and together we venture out into the back garden to enjoy the sunshine. When I have had my fill of the great outdoors I insist on being let back inside the house, which prompts her to prepare for me a lovely dinner of delicious diced chicken in the kitchen.
The evening is spent dozing on her lap, regardless of whether she is on the sofa, or sitting in the office. I am given the last set of eye drops of the day, and have myself an evening snack while she reads in bed. The bedside light being switched off is my cue to climb into bed and curl up next to her, and the whole routine begins anew the following morning.
As much as I enjoy this routine, I miss the routine I had with the British One. I hope he returns soon.
Each morning Softie prepares for me a delicious dish of diced chicken, opens the blinds on the front window, and give me the first set of eye drops. By the time she walks out the front door I have finished my morning meal (leaving a bit for later, of course) and have situated myself on the back of leather sofa #2, where I watch her walk to the bus stop at the end of our street.
After she has climbed into the belly of the bus, I turn my attention to the next door neighbor, who leaves in a little metal monster parked at the curb. Each morning when he opens the front door, I can hear the evil Mooch begging him not to leave. He carries on, yelping and pleading, until the metal monster is out of sight. One would think he would understand the routine by now, but then again, he IS a dog.
I next turn my attention to the humans across the street from our neighbors. Their morning routine includes letting outside their huge, fluffy Burmese, who sniffs the house perimeter and then lounges on the front porch, and taking their Pug-ly little dog, Elvis, for a walk. As far as barkers go, I don’t mind Elvis too much, as I rarely hear a peep out of him. He seems genuinely chuffed to be allowed out in public with a face like that.
After Elvis passes my house, I nap until being rudely awakened by the postman throwing piles of magazines through our door. This is my signal to go and have a mid-morning snack and prepare myself for the arrival outdoors of The Don. If it is cold outside The Don doesn’t appear (bit like a groundhog, that little old lady) and I go upstairs and nap on the duvet until well into the afternoon. If the weather is nice I, along with the squirrels and the rest of the neighborhood, await the arrival of The Don.
Softie comes home in the afternoon, waves to The Don, gives me eye drop #2, and together we venture out into the back garden to enjoy the sunshine. When I have had my fill of the great outdoors I insist on being let back inside the house, which prompts her to prepare for me a lovely dinner of delicious diced chicken in the kitchen.
The evening is spent dozing on her lap, regardless of whether she is on the sofa, or sitting in the office. I am given the last set of eye drops of the day, and have myself an evening snack while she reads in bed. The bedside light being switched off is my cue to climb into bed and curl up next to her, and the whole routine begins anew the following morning.
As much as I enjoy this routine, I miss the routine I had with the British One. I hope he returns soon.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Of Dons & Doctors
One of my favorite pastimes is sitting on the back of leather sofa #2, watching the world go by. I suppose it’s akin to the human habit of watching the evening news, or reading the morning newspaper. I like to stay informed on neighborhood events, and keep tabs on the comings and goings of all and sundry, and window watching is my best news source.
There is a tiny little white-haired lady who lives across the street. When the weather is nice, she likes to sit outside in a rocking chair, and if it rains she puts a rain slicker over her gown and stands on the porch with a walker. I suspect she is about as old as me.
I’m always pleased whenever I see her venture outdoors because I can count on stuff happening. Within minutes of her arrival in the rocker, a steady stream of neighbors gravitate over for a visit. She’s quite popular, and it gives me lots to watch.
My humans refer to the little white-haired lady as “The Don,” apparently because she garners a certain respect from much of the community. She is also incredibly well-liked by the squirrel population. Each day when she is outside, I watch as she delights in pitching peanuts to the hungry multitudes. They scramble around her sidewalk and steps, and even with my bad eye I can see how she laughs when one becomes brave enough to remove a nut from her quivering fingers.
After the squirrels have gotten their fill of peanuts, they disperse to their respective homes--except for the three-legged squirrel, who dashes over to my porch to stash his hoard. I don’t think Softie even realizes that there are peanut shells littering her empty flowerpots, but I know they are there.
Today the squirrel visited my porch again, and this time he hopped right up onto the outside window sill, stuck his face close to mine, and we had a little chat. Seems his name is Dr. Southpaw—he said his name used to be Dr. Bright, but after he got his right arm severed in a trap, he said he "had to change my name on account of I wasn’t quite as bright as my mama had hoped."
He also confirmed my suspicion that all squirrels use the title “Doctor” because they think they are rather clever. I suggested that perhaps he should have simply dropped "Doctor" from his title and gone with "Mister" Bright, but that seemed to upset him immensely and he raged about how he was much more intelligent than me, my humans, and then he threw in the evil Mooch from next door, for good measure.
He railed on and on about the British One plugging the entry to his home (he referred to it as "putting a lock on the door"), and got so fired up that he lost his balance, and tumbled from the window ledge.
It would have been very amusing, but I am smart enough to know that it is quite unwise to laugh in the face of an angry squirrel, three-legged or no.
There is a tiny little white-haired lady who lives across the street. When the weather is nice, she likes to sit outside in a rocking chair, and if it rains she puts a rain slicker over her gown and stands on the porch with a walker. I suspect she is about as old as me.
I’m always pleased whenever I see her venture outdoors because I can count on stuff happening. Within minutes of her arrival in the rocker, a steady stream of neighbors gravitate over for a visit. She’s quite popular, and it gives me lots to watch.
My humans refer to the little white-haired lady as “The Don,” apparently because she garners a certain respect from much of the community. She is also incredibly well-liked by the squirrel population. Each day when she is outside, I watch as she delights in pitching peanuts to the hungry multitudes. They scramble around her sidewalk and steps, and even with my bad eye I can see how she laughs when one becomes brave enough to remove a nut from her quivering fingers.
After the squirrels have gotten their fill of peanuts, they disperse to their respective homes--except for the three-legged squirrel, who dashes over to my porch to stash his hoard. I don’t think Softie even realizes that there are peanut shells littering her empty flowerpots, but I know they are there.
Today the squirrel visited my porch again, and this time he hopped right up onto the outside window sill, stuck his face close to mine, and we had a little chat. Seems his name is Dr. Southpaw—he said his name used to be Dr. Bright, but after he got his right arm severed in a trap, he said he "had to change my name on account of I wasn’t quite as bright as my mama had hoped."
He also confirmed my suspicion that all squirrels use the title “Doctor” because they think they are rather clever. I suggested that perhaps he should have simply dropped "Doctor" from his title and gone with "Mister" Bright, but that seemed to upset him immensely and he raged about how he was much more intelligent than me, my humans, and then he threw in the evil Mooch from next door, for good measure.
He railed on and on about the British One plugging the entry to his home (he referred to it as "putting a lock on the door"), and got so fired up that he lost his balance, and tumbled from the window ledge.
It would have been very amusing, but I am smart enough to know that it is quite unwise to laugh in the face of an angry squirrel, three-legged or no.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Cat's and Curses
I am over the moon about a wonderful story detailing how a little black cat put a curse on the 1969 Chicago Cubs baseball team.
"The talented 1969 team built a large lead over the rest of the National League (East) by August - over 10 games at one point - but went into a tailspin in the final month of the season," Feldmann said. "In September, the Cubs' slide began while playing the Mets in Shea Stadium in New York. Early in one of the games, a black cat ran onto the field ... and went right over in front of the Cubs dugout where he stared manager Leo Durocher right in the face."The Cubs lost that night, and the downfall had begun."
I wish I had been able to get into the Cincinnati Reds Opening Day game on Monday to put a curse on the Cubs. Perhaps then they would not have stomped the Reds 16-7?
You can read more about the book "Miracle Collapse: The 1969 Chicago Cubs" HERE .
"The talented 1969 team built a large lead over the rest of the National League (East) by August - over 10 games at one point - but went into a tailspin in the final month of the season," Feldmann said. "In September, the Cubs' slide began while playing the Mets in Shea Stadium in New York. Early in one of the games, a black cat ran onto the field ... and went right over in front of the Cubs dugout where he stared manager Leo Durocher right in the face."The Cubs lost that night, and the downfall had begun."
I wish I had been able to get into the Cincinnati Reds Opening Day game on Monday to put a curse on the Cubs. Perhaps then they would not have stomped the Reds 16-7?
You can read more about the book "Miracle Collapse: The 1969 Chicago Cubs" HERE .
My Daytime Buddy is Missing
Gloriously sunny and warm weather meant that the British One was easily manipulated into taking me out into the back garden for a nice stroll.
I quite enjoyed the sunshine and light breeze, which was made even better by a devious teasing of the big barker down the block. A flick of my very fluffy tail incited a barrage of brutal barks, snarls and much leaping about at the chainlink fence. It's very amusing to watch him go absolutely bonkers, then get scolded by his human.
A very delectable meal of delicious diced chicken followed, and all seemed right with my world.
I should have known, however, that my good fortune would not last. I am sad to report that the escaped suitcase managed to convince the British One to run away with it yesterday. He left me in the afternoon, just as I had settled in for a nice afternoon of window watching from the back of the sofa.
Oh, he tried to soothe me with kind words and a good scratching behind the ears, but I did my best to ignore him and let him know I was most displeased with the situation. Who will feed me during the day?! Who will listen to my daily rants?
When Softie came home later I guilted her into taking me outside again, to help ease the pain of separation with the British One. Plus I managed to get into trouble a tiny little yapping dustmop across the alleyway, which was nice.
I got a good, long brushing from Softie later in the evening, and when we went to the beddie-bye basket I snuggled right on top of her, lest she think of escaping with a suitcase as well.
I quite enjoyed the sunshine and light breeze, which was made even better by a devious teasing of the big barker down the block. A flick of my very fluffy tail incited a barrage of brutal barks, snarls and much leaping about at the chainlink fence. It's very amusing to watch him go absolutely bonkers, then get scolded by his human.
A very delectable meal of delicious diced chicken followed, and all seemed right with my world.
I should have known, however, that my good fortune would not last. I am sad to report that the escaped suitcase managed to convince the British One to run away with it yesterday. He left me in the afternoon, just as I had settled in for a nice afternoon of window watching from the back of the sofa.
Oh, he tried to soothe me with kind words and a good scratching behind the ears, but I did my best to ignore him and let him know I was most displeased with the situation. Who will feed me during the day?! Who will listen to my daily rants?
When Softie came home later I guilted her into taking me outside again, to help ease the pain of separation with the British One. Plus I managed to get into trouble a tiny little yapping dustmop across the alleyway, which was nice.
I got a good, long brushing from Softie later in the evening, and when we went to the beddie-bye basket I snuggled right on top of her, lest she think of escaping with a suitcase as well.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The Dreaded Suitcase
A suitcase has escaped from the closet, and the British One has been stuffing things into it.
I do not like this turn of events at all.
I do not like this turn of events at all.
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