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A day without cats?

I don't think so.

Monte Alban doesn't think so either.

It is too bad, but I am actually cat-less in Alexandria. It's the Internet cats that keep me going during the weeks.

My cats live down in Richmond where they tolerate Oz, sometimes even to the extent of not leaving the room when he walks in (only Monte does that. Sparky just lies there and yawns). In return, he feeds them (juicy food with gravy every day) and cleans up after them.

The cats make up for my absence on the weekends. Weekends seem to be prime barfing time, so I get to clean up cat effluvia too, both fresh and the stuff Oz doesn't notice. My lap must be available for sitting on demand. I may be called upon to pet an eating cat in the wee hours. I will be called upon to brush cats while standing in an uncomfortable position (I was given a reprieve and allowed to sit and brush when I had that stress fracture in my foot, but that's over now). If we are in the house, we will be meowed at incessantly for no less than two hours prior to kitty dinner time. It's a concentrated cat experience.

Take it from one who knows. A day without cats is not a good idea, because you'll have to make up for it one way or another.

Catch-22

The stress fracture in my foot is supposedly healed. I'm taking my osteoporosis medicine and extra calcium. The next step is to get back to moderate, weight-bearing exercise to build up those bones.

The problem is that moderate, weight-bearing activity is what cracked that bone.

Theoretically, sturdy arch supports will help the poor, weak bones in my arches support my weight. Unfortunately, sturdy arch supports aggravate an old soft tissue injury in my left knee.

I'm having a hard time finding the balance between not moving at all, moving enough to keep my body functioning, and moving so much that more parts break. (At the moment I'm sitting with my foot propped up, actually, because it started protesting more of that strenuous "standing in the kitchen" thing I do.)

So, what does a photographer do when she can't go for a walk?

She lies on the floor and takes pictures of cats.

Monte Alban using his favorite headrest. Cute!

Oz always says, "He's just too lazy to hold up his head!"

I always say, "National Geographic ran a photo of a lion doing the same thing. He's like a lion!"

Sparky gazing out the window at a squirrel or something else tasty-looking.

I like how the bokeh blurs the background so you can't see the paper grocery bags filled with paperbacks. (We need more bookcases.) If I'm going to be doing a lot of interior photography, we'll have to clean the place up a bit. Oz suggested hanging a backdrop in front of the clutter.

Amtrak provides a few opportunities for sedentary photography as well.

Like when the train just stops for a half hour after traveling five minutes from the station where you got on.

American railroads are in about as good a shape as I'm in.

Fraidy cat

I am known to the outdoor cats who live along my walking route. Most of them are glad to see me and get a little chin scratch. Some of them are pretty insistent about that chin scratch and run after me, meowing loudly, if I don't stop long enough with them.

There are other cats, however, who run and hide. Makes me wonder about the kitty gossip grapevine.

This evening, as I was walking up 27th Street, I saw one of those hiders bathing himself in the middle of the street. He saw me coming.

He didn't run up under his porch like he usually does. How odd.

Greeting him, I knelt down and held out my fingertips in the universal "Hey, kitty, get your chin scratched" signal.

He still didn't run. He walked over and sniffed my fingers.

"After all these years," I said. "Finally."

I lifted my hand to rub him between the ears and he ran under a parked car.

Okay. Baby steps.

It's our birthday month!

This is not Monte Alban's bouquet. Not at all. (Though his birthday does fall in June too. Perhaps we should regard the baby's breath portion as his, seeing as how he's going to eat it anyway. And then barf. It's the gift that keeps on giving, really.)

Multiple sets of our friends independently came up with the "birthday month" concept. (Or maybe they stole the idea.) It started with one adult member of a household requesting that the other adult rinse the dishes (or walk the pugs, or take out the trash), and said other adult responding, "Oh, but it's my birthday month."

Depending on where one's birthday falls in the month or one's preference, your birthday month can be the calendar month or the two weeks prior and subsequent to the birthday. "Birthday month" accords special chore-dodging privileges in the mind of the birthday-haver. I think the birthday non-haver rolls his or her eyes and the birthday haver still has to do the chores, but nice try.

"Birthday month" doesn't really work in our house, because the only creature who does not have a June birthday is Sparky the cat. He's more of a chore generator than a chore doer anyway. Sparky's birthday month is unknown, but he was born in the summer too. Maybe we're all born in June.

Oz and I were discussing the feasibility of sticking the cats with the chores. He said, "Hey! It's our birthday year!"

That means no chores ever. Right?

Grasping

Sucky things have been happening this week. I almost wish I could go back to Monday and start over, just to see if the week might turn out better, except that I wouldn't want to go through all this again. This is just everyday bad stuff, nothing truly disastrous, but things seem worse than they are when they all happen at once.

So I will try to find something cheerful to write about.

Today I received some pet supplies that I ordered on Tuesday—they arrived really fast! That's something to be cheerful about. The vendor threw in a sample packet of catnip, fresh enough that even I could smell it through the plastic. I placed the packet on a table in the living room, where the cats were napping on the couch. A few minutes later, Monte Alban was hopping up on the table and getting involved.

The involvement lasted for an hour. Maybe two? Sparky wanted at the catnip and they took turns. They're so funny about catnip, especially all the furtive looks over their shoulders, like they think they're doing something naughty and big mean Cat Mom is going to fuss at them. Then they go right back to licking and gnawing on the packet. There was quite a lot of drool this time (that must have been some seriously good nip). Rolling. Lolling. Catnip scattered upon (and drooled into) the runner. The whole works.

I'm glad somebody had some fun around here today.

Not a thing

What a nice day. I didn't do a thing. Well, except for mailing off buttloads of money to the IRS. Ouch. April sucks a bit. In a couple weeks I have to mail the quarterly taxes and make a retirement contribution.

Another pack of work arrived today. It's been a lovely week and a half without pay, but there's nothing quite like taxes to improve my attitude about working.

Something else I did: take Sparky to the vet for his shots and a weighing. I knew that was going to be bad news. Before we left I was even hunting around for a hand truck to help me move the cat carrier. (No luck.) Besides, every time I pick him up I think, "My god, has he gotten bigger since yesterday?"

It seems the answer to that is Yes.

His weight has gone up about 13% over the past year and he now weighs 18.2 pounds. I put him on diet food over a month ago and it's the other cat who's losing weight. The other cat was a little chubby too, so that's all right. Oz says Sparky just needs a kitty elliptical trainer … to lie on.

Hah.

But maybe a treadmill …

Free range kitties

Are they more tender and juicy?

My cats have always been indoor cats and now, in their crotchety and demanding golden years, they long for the open air. They are entirely unsuited for the open air and the outdoor cats who will kick their asses if they go out in it, but they don't know that.

And it's springtime. The time to call out to the wild, or at least whine to it.

The whining was too much for me today. Sparky sat by the screen door and yowled, and moaned, and yodeled for hours to be let out. He has quite the vocal range and some of the sounds he makes don't sound like they should be coming out of a cat. I think he's trying to speak English when he says, "Ow-wow-wow-ow." If he could make a "T" sound, he'd be saying "out."

I thought, If I let him out, he'll shut up. And then I thought, Any time he spends outside is time he can't be peeing on the rug. And then I opened the back door.

Sparky sat on the doorstep and yodeled a little more before he got a clue and stepped outside. Monte Alban wafted downstairs and asked to go out as well. Sparky immediately went exploring under the porch and around the perimeter of the yard. He went through a gap in the fence and explored the fenced-in backyard of the house next door. Fortunately, he didn't go through a gap in that fence to check out the world beyond and instead came back. Monte Alban just hung out and grazed in the grassy spots.

I kept an eye on them to make sure they didn't stray. I also kept watch for the local outdoor cats whose arrival would have signaled an end to the idyll, what with the ass-kicking, blood, and flying fur. All was peaceful. I had quiet, well-behaved outdoor cats for maybe an hour. They even mostly ignored each other until Sparky started hunting Monte.

Sparky: The ferocious jungle tabby stalks the gray shadow beast!
Monte: Leave me the fuck alone, nutjob!

Of course, in cat it's more like:

Sparky: *rustle* *rustle* *slink* *stalk* *attempt to hide behind a leaf*
Monte: *HISS*

Hmm. Time to go inside. I distracted Sparky with a piece of grass and encouraged Monte up to the back door, then hoisted Sparky into the kitchen.

Maybe tomorrow we'll do it again.

Woodchucks in bloom

It's the first day of spring and I got to see two woodchucks. One gamboling across the hillside in Libby Hill Park, and the other lurking up in the woods on the hill over the stupid gas station and (in)convenience store. I do enjoy the woodchuckery and it's good to see them out and about after their long winter's nap. Another sign of spring is the pastel haze at the tips of all the trees. Some oak trees turn this lovely, subtle shade of pale reddish gray which if I could get a scarf in that color, it would look great on me. I think they're oaks. I'll have to remember which trees are ghostly pink now and then check them again after the leaves come in. Oz would call them oaks, but then he insists there are only two kinds of trees: oak trees and pine trees.

I like seeing creatures behaving as they ought since I'm not getting enough of that at home. Yes, the cats are still having issues. Rather than getting a cattle prod (Oz says, "No, it'd be a kitty prod."), I'm trying to do this another way. The Feliway. (I didn't buy from the Cat Faeries people, I'm just linking them. Gad, crystals?) I have some of the spray, but I don't think it's enough for hard cases like my cats. I got a couple of the diffusers so my house will be filled with cat pheromones to give my cranky little bastards a sense of peace and tranquility. They're going to be happy and tranquil whether they like it or not.

I bought one of the diffusers at PetSmart where the clerk called me "Sir." Huh? I was so surprised I didn't say anything. I mean, I know I have short hair and no makeup on, but I don't look manly. Soft butch at most. Also, the purse with the big flower on it should have been a clue. After we walked out of the store I told Oz. He laughed and said, "You want to go back and rough him up a little?" No, I didn't think that was quite necessary.

Unlike my cats, I have tranquility to spare. Right?

Forty signs of cat pee

Actually, there's only one sign. It's yellow, damp, and stinky. It leads to conversations like this one:

Me: Oz, there's a sponge on the kitchen floor over under where the towels are.

Oz: And?

Me: You need to know that it's been used for cat pee.

Oz: So I shouldn't use it to wash my face?

Me: Yeah. Or to wipe off a dish. Or to clean the counters. Or anything.

Well, enough about the cat pee. It's been less of a problem of late, though I expect that to change as spring does its thing. That thing is happening now, in fact. Spring has crept up on little lamb feet, warming up the days and nights until we don't need to run the furnace, then we can open the windows during the day, then suddenly we're leaving the windows open all night and tomorrow it's supposed to get up to 80 °F. I love having the house open, but over the past year or so, open windows have correlated with bad cat toilet habits.

Again, enough about that.

I've been playing around with my 50 mm lens some. I think I have wide angle eyes, because with this lens I'm always having to back away from my subject. Other than that, it's a great lens, beautifully sharp and smooth. Oz and I were playing with the speedlight and I took a bunch of pictures of the cats (my principal models).

One thing about the fabulous optics and great resolution? When I view the photos in full screen mode on my monitor, I can see what a bad housekeeper I am. We have got some major dust in this house. One picture was of Sparky classily drinking out of the toilet. That picture would be appropriate for I can has cheezburger except that I can see how it's time to clean the toilet. It's also easy to see when someone needs to do a little nostril grooming.

I don't think I'll be posting any of those images. But here's one taken with that same lens.

X-treme pruning at North 27th near East Broad Street

The city and power company have been doing some long overdue pruning. If they cut the trees away from the power lines, maybe we'll have fewer power outages during the storm season. There'd better be. I want something to offset the loss of shade.

Daylight

In my default, self-employed and own-hour-setting state, I wake with the sun. Normally, by the time daylight savings arrives, my waking time is already adjusted, or has been forcibly adjusted by a cat who wants his feeding schedule set by the sun. The bumping up of the clock change has derailed the process. Last night I stayed up to some ungodly hour to finish a book, then slept till nine o'clock. Not much saving of daylight going on here.

The cats did their best to rouse me at a reasonable hour this morning, but I shut them out of the bedroom. Tricky me! I get up and walk to the door like I might possibly be going downstairs to feed them. The cat scurries ahead out into the hallway, looking back over his shoulder to make sure I'm following, then, click! I shut the door and go back to bed.

I'm so glad the door-shutting trick works in my current bedroom. In the room where I used to sleep, there was an inch and a half gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. If I tried to shut the cats out, they would reach a paw under the door, rattle the door against the doorjamb, and meow piteously and very loudly. The door of my current bedroom does not have paw clearance.

The cats may find away around even that. The smart cat, who is also the one that wants to eat in the morning, is catching on to the door closing thing. Now instead of running out into the hall, he stops and waits under the chair by the door. Thus far, I've been able to reach under the chair and gently push him into the hall, but as soon as he starts digging in his heels, I'm toast.

Since cat tricks are the theme of the day, here's another cute thing my cat did. The not-so-smart cat, Sparky was sitting on my desk the other afternoon, being helpful by sitting in front of my monitor while he engaged in a little pre-dinner primping. He stretched out one foreleg while he washed up a tricky spot on the elbow and put his paw down. On my keyboard. Suddenly "fffftttttttttttttttttttttttt" (something cats actually say) appeared in the middle of my translation. Maybe Sparky's smarter than I thought.

Trapped at my desk

By a cat.

Might as well write a little.

I came downstairs to wash the dinner dishes, take my meds, and get a glass of water. I sat down at my desk to do a little surfing before I went back upstairs and Sparky climbed into my lap.

I'm stuck here.

The cat weighs like seventeen pounds and that's not when he's being a cat of incredible heaviness like he is right now.

I did put him on a diet again, which I think is very brave of me considering that the last diet made him so grouchy he bit me. This time, instead of following the vet's advice to switch them over to mostly canned food, I just got "light" cat food which I mix with their regular food. They are getting more food, but less fat. Thus far, the only difference I've noticed is super silky coats from the brewer's yeast in the light food. Sleek, silky, non-grouchy kitties are fine with me; I don't even care if they don't lose weight.

Oh, Oz came into the office and sat down at his computer. Ruined everything for Sparky and now my lap is catless.

Nothing's different

Something not related to cats:

I received my Expocap today. This nifty gizmo will let me set white balance when the light is just too confusing for my camera. I had been using a kind of ghetto solution (a Slim Jim cap) or just correcting the color with software. The software solution is pretty good, the Slim Jim cap isn't bad, but blues things up a little too much. Thus far the Expocap seems to be spot on. Once I figure out how to make a mosaic of the different shots with different white balance settings, I can post my tests for your enjoyment.

I get my bridesmaid's dress back from the seamstress tomorrow. I hope I'm still the same size as when I took the dress in last month.

For local readers: I hope that some other people start eating at Mama's Kitchen, the Korean restaurant on Grace Street near VCU. We can't possibly keep them in business all by ourselves.

Now, about the cats:

Monte Alban near about gave me a black eye last night. I was lying on the futon in the sitting room with Monte curled up by my feet. Oz walked in, surprising Monte, who is continually offended by Oz's very existence. In his mad escape from the room, Monte leaped lengthwise across my body, nearly landing on my face, but twisting in midair and shoulder-checking my eyeball instead. I put a cold pack on my eye and the swelling has subsided. I seem to have escaped any bruising. Thank goodness! I'd have to explain it and no one would believe me.

And, if it isn't one thing, it's another. Or, rather, if it isn't Number One, it's Number Two. The toilet issues of my cats are not interesting to me either, but they seem to be taking over my life.

Amazing! We didn't have a cat pee event today (or yesterday). We did have a Dingleberry Adventure.

Dingleberry Adventures have the advantage of being easier to clean up after. Also, there is more drama. I get to chase the cat with the stinky passenger. Often the other cat gets involved, either kibitzing from the sidelines or getting involved in the chase. After the dingleberry is disposed of and the cat tidied up, the cat goes and kicks the other cat's ass for a while.

More all-around excitement than you could get from any puddle.

Today's DA had an added twist thanks to the small litter pan I put in one of the bathrooms near where many of the cat pee events (CPEs) were occurring. I didn't have a proper litter box, so I used a disposable roasting pan left over from Thanksgiving.

It's quite a small pan. Sparky is quite a big fat cat. Today, after the impressive dingleberry was removed, he still had a squatty, disturbed look. Shortly thereafter, I heard scratching sounds from upstairs. I went to check that only scratch-appropriate material was getting scratched and found Sparky trying to squat in the little pan. "Yo, some privacy here?"

I checked later to see whether everything had gone smoothly and found three poops on the floor behind the pan. He had at least kicked some litter over them. He must have stood in the pan and pooped over the side.

This only confirms our certainty that it was Monte Alban who peed in Oz's slipper. Sparky obviously doesn't have the aim.

Cats behaving badly

I really didn't want this to turn into a cat pee blog. I even stopped writing for a while because, except for the cats being naughty pissers, not much else was going on.

I mean, it was bad. I even used the web cam to surveille the spot on the carpet they were wetting. I wondered, which one is doing it? Hah! They both were. So the rug went to the cleaners and various attempts were made to optimize the litter box.

I think it might be related to the weather. It seems that they don't want to go in their box once the humidity reaches a certain level, regardless of the freshness of the box. The bad behavior stopped once the weather turned cold and dry, but damn if we aren't having another warm, humid spell. Thank you, Global Warming!

[News flash from Japan: The inventor of instant ramen just passed away at the age of 96.]

Anyway, when I stepped onto the upstairs landing this morning, I smelled something whiffy and thought, "Oh no." Down in my office I found a puddle on an old TV Japan schedule that I'd left on a corner of a small wool (note: not machine-washable) rug just for that purpose, actually. The rug went out on the deck so it could do its stinking outside and also for a vague attempt at cleaning. The TV schedule went in the trash (in the bottom of the supercan, the residue of the Guinness-chocolate pie is turning blue). All was well for a while. Then I went for a walk and when I came back, I found a puddle on the floor near a wardrobe.

Way to go, kitties! You finally hit something I could clean.

Then the mail came, bringing with it a gift from my brother in Tokyo. He sent me the two volumes of "Today's Nekomura-san," a comic about a helpful kitty. Nekomura-san (literally, "Cat Town", but it's really a play on Japanese names) cleans, cooks, and does dishes! I want Nekomura-san to come live in my house. Maybe Nekomura-san could make my cats shape up.

Did somebody say "bacon"?

Sparky, lured toward the kitchen by the aroma of frying bacon.

We gave him some to try, but the idea of bacon seemed to be more appealing than the reality.

Cooking breakfast at home always sounds much nice than it really is, especially when your standard is the diner breakfast. The key aspects of diner breakfast being that it is cooked by someone else, much faster than I could, followed by the dishes being washed by someone else.

The cooking process took for-damn-ever, mostly because we do this so little that we've never developed a system. Mid-cooking, Oz had to run to the grocery store, because our elderly bacon had little blue spots on. As the process advanced, the air in the house filled with a mist of atomized pork fat. "Yay! We can get that diner smell in our clothes without having to go to a diner, where they would also wash the dishes!" I said as I ran around opening windows. Lucky for us, it was really warm today.

I think the house is about aired out, and we didn't set of the smoke alarm, so okay, not a bad way to usher in the Year of the Pig. On TV Japan last night, they did some YotP duty by running a special on the history of pork cookery in Japan, featuring some interesting (if you're into that sort of thing) stories about the transmission of pork cookery traditions to Japan from mainland Asia through Korea and Okinawa. The dramatizations showed guys with samurai haircuts getting very excited about salty chunks of fatback.

In other year-end Japanese news, nothing to do with piggies, a Buddhist temple had a festival for Fudo, the Immovable One with the flaming backdrop. The festival theme was praying for fire prevention. The main event? A bonfire.

I do like that holiday news.

Speaking of body fluids …

I think we have the cat pee problem resolved. I hesitate to say that, because it means I'll soon find a cat pee event.

However, there are other fluids to contend with.

The seasons have shifted and nighttime temperatures are dropping into the 30 degree range. Last night Oz brought in all his houseplants, which have been living in the back yard since he moved them here last May. The cats were all "Woo! Salad bar!" and immediately started sampling all the plants. Jade plants are fun to play with, the tasty shamrocks are out of reach, and the tougher tropicals are excellent gnawing plants. The variegated ground cover-type plant? They just ate it up.

Shortly thereafter, they just barfed it up.

So now that the pee season has passed, it's barfing time. Oh, the glamour! My life is so exciting and I'm running out of paper towels.

Resting

[Note: My hosting service just moved to another server. The site may look and act a little odd for a couple days while the DNS updates.]

The joints in my hands are aching too much for me to write lots of words. I had to use my voice recognition software for my translation work today. Fortunately for me, the article was accommodating and didn't include any of the usual gremlins which foil the VR software, like equations or Greek letters. Even so, some of the VR errors were especially amusing. "Many difficulties" became "many difficult Uzbeks." Yes! Darn those Uzbeks. So difficult and they will totally mess up your network protocol.

Why not enjoy a picture from the kitty-cam?

They are just finishing up their dinner, chunks of meats in gravy. Monte walks off, licking his chops, while Sparky (aka Fat Bastard) sits by a bag of recycling and mentally prepares himself to go back for more.

How psycho is my cat?

I was lounging on the couch today and I glanced over at the red leatherette hassock (it's an heirloom, okay?), where my manuscript was lying open, mocking me. The light filtered lazily in through the window and hit everything just right.

Perfectly highlighting the fang marks on the corner of the hassock.

The fang marks, I should add, exactly match the fang scars on my leg. I looked over the hassock a little more carefully and found four more sets of fang marks. By "marks" I actually mean "holes that go all the way to the cushy filling."

There's no telling when he viciously bit the hassock, though I suspect the fang marks on the corner were fresh. It's a good thing the hassock doesn't bleed or need antibiotics. Or have a lawyer.

Sparky has seemed much calmer since I put him on the psychoactive meds, but still. I'm glad I'm not a piece of furniture.

And about that MS! That's what my little red pen and I have been working on instead of blogging. I'm mostly copyediting and tightening up the writing to eliminate the verbosity which is a direct result of NaNoWriMo. Thanks to the 1700 words/day requirement I ended up using way more words than necessary. This was a good thing when I pulled out nifty words that I didn't know were there, but not so good when I just used too many words. Still, crossing things out with the red pen is easier than writing them in. Another thing I'm finding is that, thanks to plenty of preliminary plot obsession, I'm not having to do much revision. I will have to do some infill writing, however, to improve my villains.

Enough. I need to go cross out some words.

How to pill a cat II

Sparky's been taking his calming pills okay. He whines about it, but he doesn't offer too much resistance. He never did muster much enthusiasm for the treats, though, which is so unlike him. I was beginning to wonder if this medicine was making him a little too calm. But I sort of knew what the problem was.

Sucky treats.

Oz had a thing of the crunchy tartar control kind, so we figured we'd use them up. And they were lasting a good, long time, too, because most of the time Sparky would just wander off after getting his pill.

It was kind of sad.

Last time we went to buy cat food, we picked up some better treats. Softer treats! With fun flavors and less ghoulish dye! Now Pill Time is Fun Time. This evening Sparky and the other cat, who gets treats though he gets no pill, perked up and hurried over when I got out Sparky's pill. I still have to pry Sparky's mouth open and drop the pill in, but the prying operation takes rather less effort than before the advent of the soft treats.

In unrelated 'hood news: This afternoon the police caught one of the burglars in the act. Also this afternoon, there was another break-in. With any luck the burglars all know each other and the captured one will rat out his associates.

In unrelated weather news: I found that one of the gutters still has a leak, though it is smaller than before. Just in time for Tropical Storm Ernesto. I got an automated call from the City this evening telling me to have three days worth of food and "sanitary" (whatever that means … storm-induced, citywide toilet paper shortage?) and to be prepared to shelter in place unless I am in a flood prone area, in which case I should be prepared to evacuate. Sounds a bit extreme, considering the National Weather Service is only saying "LOCALLY HEAVY RAINFALL POSSIBLE." On the other hand, they're using all caps.

Eagles in the architecture

The Church Hill Bank, North 25th and East Broad Streets

Everyone's posting pictures of flags today, so I had to be different. I started looking around at all the patriotic signals in the architecture around us. I wandered through Church Hill on foot yesterday, and then had Oz chauffeur me today for an eagle tour of downtown Richmond. ("Hey, there's an eagle! Stop! No, you went past it." "I had to find parking!" "That was totally parking back there!") Click the picture for more sandstone fun.

By dint of working my butt off last week and yesterday, I was able to take today off. All the way off. No work at all. So we slept in, watched the Clash of the Axis Powers (Italy vs. Germany in the World Cup semifinals), baked bread, etc. I made pasta salad with basil and parsley from the garden and then quizzed Oz about the bug stuff he'd put out all over the backyard yesterday.

"You know, I rinsed the hell out of those herbs, but did you read the warning label on that poison?"

"Yes. It said it was okay for fruits and vegetables. Sheesh."

This evening, since the soccer match ran into overtime and we wanted to eat right away, we went to the Full Kee for dinner because they're always open. We finally gave in to the staff's insistence and tried the deep-fried spicy soft shell crab. It was fantastic, although Oz did point out that even deep-fried spicy tennis shoes would probably taste good, but this really was good. I've had a deep distrust of soft shell crab ever since a soft shell crab sandwich in Annapolis which included the guts. I like my crabs cleaned, thank you.

In feral cat news, I successfully pilled Sparky the biting cat with his anti-anxiety meds. After my first unsuccessful attempt, I worked on my technique and on training the cat to deal with having his mouth pried open. For the last few weeks I've been going through the process without a pill. Scoop up kitty, pry his mouth open, tell him what a good boy he is (e.g., lie), and give him a treat. It helps to do this at a time of day when he's relaxed and sleepy. Today I did the same thing, only I dropped a pill into the back of his throat. He swallowed it right up and scarfed down his treats.

This afternoon I told Oz, "It says it takes three weeks before the medicine starts working."

He looked at Sparky sprawled groggily on the red leather chair. "Three weeks, my butt. Look at that cat. He's totally zonked."

This would be a good thing. He hasn't been in the best mood lately. He's been collecting nicknames like "Grouchy-pants" and, when he's nasty (generally towards the other cat), "Fat Bastard." Even as a kitten he was naughty, but not too. Oz called him "The Knave of Twilight" because he never was quite bad enough to rate "Prince of Darkness."

Now I'm listening to the booming of fireworks in the distance. Later this evening, people here in the neighborhood will pull out their automatic weapons and fire into the sky. The usual, on the Fourth of July.

Amusements

The other night Oz bought a cup of catnip at the pet food store. Because when life is grumpy-making, you can always perk yourself up by watching cats get stoned. When we got home he dumped a heap of catnip on the rug. The cats said, "Woo!" and began to wallow in it. And slaver.

They spent the night pressing their bodies to that area of the rug. The next morning I saw Sparky's butt projecting out from under the couch. I heard a strange tok-tok sound. When I lifted the dust flap to see what he was up to, I found him gnawing on the plastic catnip tub, which is now perforated.

"Oz! You have debauched my cats!"

"Oh, those cats were already pretty debauched."

"So. Were you thinking about running the vacuum cleaner anytime soon?" There is catnip all over the place. The cats don't mind, but the rugs are looking seriously scruffy.

How to pill a cat

Sparky is going to be on some medication to help with his anxiety. His anxiety? What about my anxiety? I went to the vet today to pick up his medicine and the receptionist handed me a prescription.

"Where do I get this filled?"

She said, "Oh, any pharmacy."

Then I walked into the any pharmacy in my neighborhood and said, "I have a prescription. For my cat."

One of the pharmacists walked over to the computer to enter the prescription. "So, has your … cat been here before?"

"No."

Another pharmacist stuck his head around the shelves. "Does your cat have an insurance card?"

"No. Ha, ha. You know, they have that now, but I don't carry it for my cats."

So, Sparky gets human meds. They gave me a leaflet about anti-depressants and watching out for suicidal thoughts, and they stuck labels on the bottle warning not to mix the medication with alcohol and not operating heavy machinery.

Now I have to get the pills into the cat. He always was the easiest cat to pill because he was motivated to get the treats. This seems to have changed. Now he's still motivated to get the treats, but also to avoid the pill. I'll have to work on my technique. Right now, for some reason, I'm reluctant to stick my fingers in his mouth.

On the bright side for some, looks like school's out.

Let it bleed

Well, the last several days have kind of sucked.

On Saturday afternoon, I was standing at the counter stirring up some sour cream topping, with fresh lime zest, for a lime cheesecake. The spoon was chiming against the side of the bowl, the cutting board rattling on the counter. My cat was busy having one of his periodic psychotic breaks and was killing a piece of dust with much drama. Kill! Kill! Kill!

Suddenly, little brown paws appeared on the corner at my elbow as if he was trying to jump up into the bowl, then.

Chomp!

"He bit me!" I looked down into a huge hole in my leg which quickly filled with blood. I guess he broke the skin. "Mom!" (My mother was over. We were hanging out and watching Argentina vs. Ivory Coast.)

So much for my pleasant afternoon. We went to the Doc in a Box and I got antibiotics. PSA: If you have an animal bite that breaks the skin, especially a cat bite, go get medical attention immediately. Don't wait around to see if you get infected. They say 50% of cat bites get infected and if you look at my leg, you'll see that's true. Two out of the four fang marks are infected, even with all the antibiotics. And you'll get to hear things you never thought you'd ever hear said in all seriousness, like "There is probably some trauma to the muscle since the fangs went in so deeply."

I've had to return to the doctor twice for shots in the butt of extra antibiotics because the infection kept bouncing back, even with all the antibiotic pills I'm taking (which upset my stomach, so fun nausea too). All that has put me a couple days behind on my work with very tight deadlines and the other things I need to do. And my gutters started leaking again!

Now my calf looks like it was bitten by a very short vampire with a poor understanding of the circulatory system, but much enthusiasm. Sparky has a record with the health department because all animal bites get reported. I started feeding the cats extra, since I think I'd rather have them bloated and logy than svelte and perky. I've got my vet looking up tranquilizers because that cat needs to calm down! I could use some too …

Cats

Still a four letter word.

This most recent incident begins with "What's that smell?"

I initially thought something very bad and expensive was going on with the plumbing in the master bath, but then noticed the smell out in the bedroom. I walked around sniffing while Oz was trying to change. He said, "Do you mind having your psychotic episode somewhere else?"

"Fine."

So the next morning he noticed that some of his socks were yellowed, and not with age. It seems the cats decided that the heap of neatly folded laundry was ideal for something other than napping on. Great.

I spent the afternoon cleaning up, making use of my entire selection of Swiffer products in the process. The room needed cleaning anyway, so that's not a big deal, though I could have done without the peepee. I had originally had somewhat different plans for my lazy afternoon, involving baking cheesecake and/or the preparation of a tasty, nutritious meal. The cooking didn't happen, because by the time everything on the floor had been picked up, sorted, contaminated items removed to the back porch (for the enjoyment of the neighborhood cats, of course), the floor cleaned, spritzed with Petzyme, and cleaned again, and after I had done some dusting (because, why not?), we were going out for beer and onion rings, and to get some pee-proof containers for the laundry.

This phasing out of the downstairs litterbox isn't going very smoothly. Sparky's been "forgetting" that he has to go upstairs now (though the bedroom is upstairs, so that's no excuse for this, but he's had some downstairs problems over the last couple days). I think Monte's just being spiteful. I ended up spending today keeping a close eye on Sparky, following him around every time he meowed and looked dazed in that way which could mean anything from "I'm bored" to "I see dead people" to "I really need to pee."

We made it to the evening without any incidents. "Yes!" I thought as I walked up the stairs, "A day without cat pee!"

Then I walked into the master bathroom and noticed that the little rug by the sink had been crumpled up, and was damp and stinky.

Maybe tomorrow.

"Cats" is a four letter word

First thing this morning, I'm brushing my teeth and I hear scratching sounds. I look out in the bedroom and see my boys scratching in that litterbox way at some of Oz's clothes left lying on the floor. Because the floor is a clothing receptacle for some people, you see.

The clothes had been peed on. Augh! And this just a few days from the institution of juicy breakfast. The ingrates!

The clothes were thrown into the washing machine.

This is how I started the day. Okay, I had coffee too and while I was getting my brain going, I considered how my cats are generally well behaved about their toilet habits. What this pee episode meant was that their old box, despite the regular litter changes, had gotten ammoniated and must be replaced. Like, now.

For my morning break I ran out to the pet supply place and get a new litter box. I tell you, litter boxes are getting fancier all the time, but I really just wanted a plain old rectangular one with a cover. Those are hard to find among the electronic-this, sifter-that, and domed-the-other-thing.

Juicy breakfast is the vet's idea. I had Sparky in for shots and a diet consultation, because he's over sixteen pounds now and I don't want to deal with a diabetic cat who needs insulin shots twice a day. Also, it's pitiful to see him try to hop up on a windowsill and fall off. The vet said give him "soft food" and stuck by it even when I accused him of trying to buy Sparky's love. (When did people start referring to canned food as "soft food"? Soft food sounds like something you give an invalid.) At my house, the cats get crunchy food and juicy food. Now I'm phasing out the crunchy and they do love their juicy breakfast. If only they were grateful enough to learn semaphore as a means to communicate their toilet issues.

Then.

I went out in the backyard this afternoon to see if my new herbs were dead yet and I found one of my lavenders uprooted and lying on its side. "Argh! Who did that?" I cried and local friendly cat Drooly (drools when he's happy, hence the name) hopped over the fence and scampered over to say "Hi" and wallow enthusiastically among the lavenders. Well, that answers that. I scooped the cat out of the lavender bed, replanted my lavender, and then watered everything! No more dust bath for the kitty.

Cats.

Silver linings

My day began in the hour before dawn, when a cat barfed up a hairball on the bed. I shoved the cat off the bed and tried to go back to sleep, but a stinky, cat-temperature hairball does not a pleasant bedfellow make, so I went ahead and got up. Oh, the glamour! I don't know if I can stand it.

Being covered with cat hair, albeit not in ball form, the bedspread did need a wash. And this gave me an opportunity to congratulate myself for not putting the embroidered quilt, made by my grandmother and recently passed to me, on the bed. It's all for the good, I say.

Even better, I got started on my work for the day an hour early and finished an hour early. Funny how that works. And then I went to the Y for a swim.

So I should thank the cat, right?

Under woodchuck eyes

A couple months ago, I saw a woodchuck (groundhog) sitting out on my back porch. I hadn't seen him since, and the cats haven't been spending an inordinate amount of time on the windowsill staring into the back yard, so I haven't had woodchucks on the mind lately.

The last couple days, though, it's been cool enough to leave the back door open, with the screen door latched to keep in the cats who, having viewed the world through glass for months, were happy to view the back yard through the screen. I started to get suspicious when they skipped their naps to hang out by the back door, and got more suspicious when a squirrel started hollering. I joined my cats at the back door and saw said hollering squirrel on the fence and the woodchuck, a little bigger than he was at his last appearance, hanging out in the herbless herb bed.

I talked to the woodchuck, not too loudly that the neighbors might hear, and stayed inside. The woodchuck came over to the porch, looked at me for a little while (smiling), and ducked underneath the porch.

Now whenever I walk into the kitchen, I check out back for the woodchuck (his name is Buddy) and often he's right out there, keeping an eye on things in my house and going under the porch when he sees me.

Oz has expressed some concerns. "If he lives under the porch, where do you think he goes to the bathroom? And shouldn't his name be 'Charles'?"

But I think that the yard is big enough for us and Buddy too.

Oz is afraid of turtles

When I was thinking about the kid with the turtle on the leash, I remembered this.

I knew Oz preferred to keep his distance from reptiles like snakes and so on, but the turtle thing didn't really register, because turtles are about as threatening as rocks. Sure, if a turtle is flying through the air towards your head, you duck, but otherwise they're not that alarming, except for snapping turtles which are pretty easy to identify before any biting happens.

One day, many years ago, I was over at his house, which is way out in the suburbs and has a backyard that bleeds into the woods. Even so, it doesn't ever feel all that woodsy out there. Most of his encounters with wildlife are of the squishy nature, because the wildlife has been chewed into little bits by the many cats that live in his house. Occasionally the odd chipmunk, squirrel, or blue jay makes it into (and out of) the house alive, but that's about it.

But on this day, I found a box turtle walking around in his front yard, probably looking for the woods. When I was a kid, we had reptile pets, including various turtles, snakes, and lizards, so I didn't think anything of picking it up, at which point it withdrew into its shell, and taking it into the house with me.

I held it up to show him. "Look, it's a turtle! It was walking around—"

"Get that thing out of here."

"But it's just a turtle." I looked at the turtle and it looked back at me from inside its shell.

"Get it out of here."

Okay, I returned the turtle to the yard, which suited it fine as the whole home visit thing wasn't its idea, after all. When I went back inside, I was instructed to wash the turtle slime off my hands. "Turtles don't have slime," I said, but washed my hands anyway.

Thus was peace restored.

When I reminded him (a minute ago) of the turtle incident, he said, "I like turtles just fine. In the wild." I guess we'll have to limit ourselves to mammalian pets.

Wild kingdom

Sparky spent the morning sitting on the windowsill, lashing his tail and muttering evil kitty curses under his breath. I would go over and peer out between his ears in a vain effort to see what was getting him all riled, but saw nothing but the breeze stirring the azaleas.

This means the backyard is haunted, right?

I remember a book we had as kids said that if your pet was freaking out at nothing, then it might be a ghost. You could (maybe) see the ghost if you looked between the pet's ears. No word on what to do if your pet is a snake, but anyway.

That never worked. It didn't work today.

Eventually, though, I looked out the window from between Sparky's ears and saw…

a groundhog sitting on the porch!

This is a first. I've seen groundhogs over in Libby Hill Park and in the woodsy patches that grow on the side of Church Hill, but never all the way over by my house. This groundhog was a juvenile (you could tell by the piercings and the bad haircut), maybe he's striking out on his own.

Mint

When we were over in Carytown for dinner, I pinched a sprig of spearmint that was volunteering like a fool in someone's herbaceous border. This is a really minty mint, not a grassy-smelling, hybridized, weedy mint. I jammed the sprig into the dirt of one of my neglected flowerbeds. Next spring: mint juleps!

Copyright

A couple months ago I shipped a hard copy of my Church Hill novel off to the Copyright Office in DC and today I received my official Registration of Copyright. They processed my form on my birthday, so my paperwork has my birthday stamped all over it. It's not actually necessary to register your copyright, I know, but I just wanted the validation.

All relative

Last night we bought a basil plant. Yes, it's August and obviously we are behind the curve with the whole garden program this year. We used to have herbs in the garden, but incidents over the past couple of years (school, car accidents, insane schedules) have taken their toll. Last year's rainfall of biblical proportions which killed everything in my low maintenance, drought tolerant yard didn't help.

I put the little pot of basil in the kitchen and watered it. I noticed that Monte Alban, the gray cat, was interested in it, but hopped down off the counter whenever I walked into the kitchen.

By this morning, he was no longer keeping up the pretense of behaving when I could see him. He was loving that basil plant and purring like a—a thing that purrs a lot. I watched him lick all the leaves and put his teeth on them. He didn't bite the leaves off, like he does with plants that he really likes, so I didn't think too much of it. Then I watched him lick the leaves some more and considered the concept of a tomato, basil and cat spit salad.

At this point, all the leaves have been licked and most bear little toothy bruises. It's not so appetizing anymore.

I wondered why the cat was so into the basil, but it's not a mystery. Catnip is a mint and basil is in the mint family too. (This was "organic" basil, so the grower shouldn't have sprayed anything scary on it.) The basil must have had a little bit of the old nepetalactone, not enough to turn him into a drooling goofy fool, but enough to make him happy and give him the munchies for the rest of the day.

Pest control

This morning when I was carrying my coffee from the kitchen to the office, this being my morning commute, I saw a big, shiny cockroach wandering around slowly, as if confused or merely Southern, under the dinner table. It wasn't one of the little, brown domesticated cockroaches (which I've never seen in my house, ever), but one of the black, juicy, free-range cockroaches that one sees crawling out of the manhole covers at night. I never see those in my house either, by the way; I guess this one got lost on his way home from a wild night of raiding trashcans and terrorizing small to medium-sized rodents.

Because the abatement of big, crunchy bugs is the only job my cats have, I set down my coffee and ran into the living room to grab the nearest cat, Sparky, who was taking his post-breakfast nap on the red leather chair. "Okay, Sparks, time to get to work." I set him down and pointed him at the cockroach.

Normally, he locks onto target and goes into full insect-torture mode more or less instantly, but this time he just yawned and belched a little. Since he hung around by the bug and didn't fall asleep again right away, I figured he was sort of on the case. I watched him watch the bug for a few minutes and then decided that he wasn't quite enough on the case and maybe I should do something.

I have no justification for what I did next, except that it seemed like a good idea and please remind yourself that I hadn.t had any coffee yet. I thought, if I could get the bug to walk into a bag, I could carry the bag out to the trashcan and that would solve the bug problem. So I got a bag, placed it on the floor with the open end pointing towards the bug and watched the bug turn and walk in the other direction. At this point I came to my senses, put the bag away, and took my coffee on into my office.

I'd like to point out that whenever you put a bag down in front of a cat, the cat always walks into the bag. Even if the bag is smaller than the cat's head.

Later, when I went back for more coffee, I found the cat reclining, sphinx-like, beside where the cockroach was navigating a throw rug. He was gazing benevolently down at the bug, as if it were some kind of pet, and occasionally nodding off. I looked a little more closely at the roach and noticed that it was missing a leg. Maybe Sparky was working on the bug problem, but not quickly enough to satisfy me.

You don't eat a good bug like that. Sparky blinked. Not all at once.

I'm not afraid of bugs, but I really hate the crunch and squish of smashing them, which is why I leave it to the cats, who look upon bugs as interactive sushi and like the crunch and squish. I grew concerned that if Sparky didn't get cracking, then I might accidentally step on the bug and experience the crunch-squish that I was trying to avoid. Now, with caffeine in my bloodstream, I came up with a better idea (Oz's usual method of dealing with bugs): the vacuum cleaner!

I got out the vacuum and vacuumed up the cockroach. Sparky ran away to hide under a bed because he hates the vacuum. I got more coffee.

Pet DIY

On a cat food run to the pet product store, I stop to look at the selection of reptiles and amphibians. They've adjusted their selection and now include Toad, Large and Toad, Green European. I guess Green European Toads may not be readily available in Virginia, but I know that regular brown toads are. I used to find them in the yard when I was a kid. I can't imagine why someone would want to spend money on a Toad, Large when, if one applies oneself, one can catch such a creature for free. If one happens to catch a Toad, Small, one need only feed it to achieve a Toad, Large.

La danse

"Your cats eat expensive food." Oz is reviewing a receipt.

"I tried to switch them back to cheap food, and they liked it, but they barfed a lot and it was gross."

"Princess cats."

"Totally. I almost wish I hadn't taken them down the expensive food route in the first place, but that cheap canned food smells so nasty, and anyway… They love that gravy kind. I got the fish kind and it's too bad they won't dance for you. You should see. The first time I cracked open a can of that, they did this." I put my left hand on one hip, raise my right hand palm out to my ear, then take little steps and sway my hips from side to side. "What's this dance called? It begins with an M."

"Uh, mambo?"

"No." I keep dancing.

"Merengue?"

"Yeah! That's it."

Gravy Day

My cats get canned food every day. I cycle through the flavors so they get some sense of variety and don't get burned out on their favorites. Their current favorite is chunks of meat in gravy and they never know when it's about to come up in the queue. The instant I pop the top off the can, though, they know whether it's gravy day.

Today is a gravy day.

I tell Oz about it later. "The cats go nuts when I open the can. They dance around on their hind legs and sing the Happy Gravy Song."

"They dance together? Like a tango?"

"No, they don't know how. They put their front paws on the kitchen cabinet for balance and dance beside each other. Kind of like a line dance."

"Oh."

I now have the oddest image in my head.

Basic geometry

Several years ago, when my friend's first daughter was getting all verbal, my friend was telling me about it. "That's how I knew she was a genius. She said, 'Mommy, kitty is a triangle.' And cats really do look like triangles when they're sitting up."

Anyway, I was looking at my cat Sparky the other day and I thought about my friend's daughter and what she would have said if he'd been her cat instead. Here, look at Sparky:

The kid would have said, "Mommy, kitty is an oblate spheroid."

As long as we're doing basic sciences, have some zoology:

I pulled these Japanese snow monkeys off the Monkeycam the other day. There's something a little Burghers of Calais about them, but don't they make you want to go soak in a hot spring? Not that one, though. It's full of monkeys.

(Oz gets credit for the line about the oblate spheroid. It's funnier than what I came up with.)

One wonders

The Gray One, Monte Alban, would be happier without fleas, I decide and scoop him off my desk. He knows something's up and struggles when he hears the crackle of the package of flea stuff as I pop the tube out of its foil-backed capsule. I hold the cat between my knees and quickly squeeze the flea stuff onto the back of his neck. He twitches and jerks his head around.

He runs away and I figure he'll be avoiding me for weeks.

He doesn't.

Twenty minutes later, he slinks into the room, making googly eyes, and chirps at me. He purrs and slithers around on the floor. I suspect subterfuge: that he's manipulating me, trying to get me to rub the flea stuff off on my hand.

After all, he is the smart one.

But he is defeated by my distraction. I catch a whiff of—can it be?—cat pee and spend the next several minutes crawling around and sniffing the living room rug.

Monte Alban is mystified and eventually withdraws to watch.

A feline forgives

I have two cats, the Fluffy One and the Gray One. Somehow, despite the fact that they never set foot outside, they managed to pick up fleas. The Fluffy One has them worse than the Gray One, probably because he's extra fat and juicy. I have been remiss. I didn't pay too much attention to the flea situation (there's been a lot going on), and when I did, I got the cheap flea stuff from the pet supply store. The cheap stuff doesn't work; it actually bothers the cats more than it bothers the fleas. I swear, after I put this stuff on the Fluffy One, I saw fleas prancing across his tummy. Then poor Fluffy One had a big greasy spot on the back of his neck for weeks! In addition, as the Fluffy One became a slightly less hospitable environment, the fleas hopped over onto the Gray One.

I decided that for their seasonal gift I would get the cats the good flea stuff from the vet that costs ten times as much but actually works. Today is the day, I decided after I saw all the flea poo in the spot where the Fluffy One sleeps. I sat on the Fluffy One, squeezed the stuff onto his neck, and let him go. He cringed and ran away to sulk on a windowsill for awhile, but within an hour he was demanding lap time. I hope I can get away with dosing only him. The Gray One takes flea stuff really personally and will not forgive me for weeks, but when I dose the Fluffy One and not him, he makes extra nice. The Gray One is a little smarter than the Fluffy One, but a lot more neurotic. I should dose him anyway.

Cat tested, cat approved

Meow.

"It's five in the morning. Let me sleep."

Meow. It's breakfast time. We get fed at five now.

"Not on weekends. Let me sleep."

Meow. I'm not going to stop meowing until I get fed.

"Christ." I know he means it. Preceded by thunderous cat feet, I stagger downstairs, measure some food into their dish (the fat little guys are still on a diet), and stagger back upstairs.

Amazingly enough, I am able to get back to sleep and—I count this as a great success—my dreams are entirely computer-free even though the Hamsters left me with an assortment of tricky problems Friday afternoon. I wake up again around eight and, not thinking of computers, laze in bed for another hour before I stagger back downstairs, preceded by thunderous cat feet, to make a cappuccino.

Meow. The cats are dancing beside their empty dish. It's time to feed us. You always feed us when you make coffee.

"I fed you. Do you think I forgot?"

Free kittens

"We found a kitten last night. Someone abandoned it by the road. It's so young, maybe only a few weeks old," Amp&Effects tells me.

"Did you take it in?" I ask.

"Well, yes, but we can't keep it. The apartment won't let us have pets," he explains. "We're going to find someplace to take her."

"So you have a cat now." I'm impressed. I've set myself a two-cat limit which I've managed not to exceed, ever, except when cat-sitting for a friend. Does this make me mean, or just rational?

"No, we have to find her a home. She's really too young to be away from her mother though." His eyes are wide as he gets mildly irate about the separation of kitten and mom-cat.

"Is she eating okay? Did you get her some kitten food? I think they make kitten formula milk too now," I say.

"Yeah, we got kitten food, and we're giving her milk."

"Could she drink okay?"

"We-ell. She didn't but then I pushed her face in the bowl and then she did."

I imagine a surprised kitten licking milk off its nose. Very cute. "So you have a cat now."

"Oh, no. We can't have a cat at the apartment."

He has a cat now, whether he admits it or not. "Mm-hm. So, what color is she?"

"She's all black. And so little she can sit on the palm of your hand." He holds out his hand, palm up, and we picture a tiny, round-tummied feline seated thereon. It purrs and tries to wash the tip of its tail.

"Aww." I had a black kitten when I was a kid. I named it Timmy. "So, what did you name her?"

He looks at his feet and smiles sheepishly. "Hailey," he says in a small voice.

Sucker. Dude has a cat.

Gratuitous cat picture

Aren't they cute when they're sleeping? All peaceful and innocent, like? The Gray One is even now nibbling on the corner of my iBook and begging for extra crunchy food. The Fluffy One is more forthrightly nibbling on my knee and begging for extra crunchy food. They don't like me being gone so much; it interferes with the regularity of their mealtimes.

And today I got a picture of the world's coolest filing cabinet. Look at all the stickers! I found this on the first day of my internship. I thought I saw one with even more stickers, but either I'm misremembering or someone's glommed it for their own office. I'd love to haul this one to my lab, but I don't have space. Lots of folks here have sticker collections ("I've got stickers from all the shuttle missions!" Office Extrovert tells me.) and they get to stick stickers wherever they want. A guy in the next lab has stickers all over his desk and on the windows for a nice stained glass effect.

The Gollum next door

Sometimes I chase my cats around the house while calling to them in my monster voice. (Yes, I live alone. Why do you ask?) It amuses us all, or at least, it amuses me and the cats don't mind the attention. The monster voice is all my own invention and I was rather annoyed to hear it issuing from my radio during an interview with Andy Serkis about his role as Gollum in the Lord of the Rings films. After he described how he based the voice on the sound of his cat hacking up hairballs, I decided that I was willing to share the monster voice. For now.

In any event, I don't think that such monstrous behavior on my part has adversely affected my cats. They aren't any more evil than your average cats. Or so I thought.

My neighbors unimaginatively have a big black Lab that they don't walk enough. The dog takes the air in their tiny backyard, which is really just a fenced in patio of maybe 150 square feet. My office window is on the first floor of my house and looks out into this yard. The dog, Sammy, is very bored. Like any nine-month-old dog would, he entertains himself by running back and forth and ripping up the bushes that formerly grew high enough to cover the bottom half of my office window. Now my cats and I have a great view of the muddy patio, the piles of poop under the window, and Sammy.

I mostly ignore Sammy and now that he's used to seeing someone beyond the window, he mostly ignores me. The cats seemed to be unaware of his presence, at least until their newfound energy, thanks to their diet food, started keeping them awake during the day.

My "good" kitty, Monte Alban, began to take more of an interest in his surroundings and to hang out on my office windowsill, from which he spied Sammy. And something about Sammy galumphing around on the patio really pisses him off.

Really.

Things develop from there. Monte draws Sammy's attention with the angry cat schtick: raised hackles, growling, spitting, smacking at the window, the whole deal. Sammy is bored and has a little aggression to work off anyway, so he barks and flings himself against my office window from the other side. The first few Wild Kingdom incidents, I just chase Monte out of the office and every time Sammy starts barking like that, the neighbors take him back inside. I figure the animals will get tired of this eventually, but they don't. It gets to the point where Monte will be snuggling upstairs with me, but when he hears the neighbors' door open to let the dog out, he hops up, grins at me, and runs down to the office window where the growling, thumping, and woofing commence.

I have enough of this. Iron bars protect the window, but the dog might still break it. Besides, the siding on my house is pretty friable and I don't want a dog scrabbling at it. Monte Alban knocks over the little pot of dead shamrocks in the windowsill and spreads dirt all over. I pull down the blind so they can't see each other. Problem solved, except that my bright sunny office is now a dim cave.

Moreover, the office is only separated from my neighbors' living room by two layers of sheetrock. Thinking that I must be the evil gray cat-thing, Sammy barks at me when he's in his house and hears me walking around on the far side of the wall. He barks at me when he hears me walking past his house outside.

"Thanks, Monte, it was getting too quiet around here," I say.

Monte looks up from where he's resting in my office chair. Think nothing of it. Noblesse oblige.

One evening, when I and Oz are walking out to his car, Sammy sounds especially annoyed with us, annoyed enough to throw himself against the door. Woof, woof! Woof! Argh!

"Good doggy, Sammy," Oz says.
"Woof, woof," I call.
"Yeah, good watchdog."

Sammy is not that easy. The barking and thumping redouble.

In the monster voice, I say what Japanese dogs say instead of "woof": "Wan-wan!"

Dead silence falls behind the neighbors' door.

Oz and I exchange a glance. I say, "Well, that sure worked."

In the doggy voice, Oz says, "Whut in hell's a wan-wan?"

Me and Monte Alban. Between the two of us, we're Gollum. And dogs fear us.

Junction capacitan-zzzz

Struggling to study for my Electronic Devices midterm today, I keep closing my eyes. I give up after awhile and take a nap, or try to. My gray cat, Monte Alban (story there, I didn't name him), is afflicted with the excessive energy that has plagued my cats since I put them on diet food and which they mostly use to beg for food. He wanders into the sitting room and walks around me where I lie on the futon.

Purring casually, he tries to pull the blanket off me. Wouldn't you like to go downstairs and, say, put down some crunchy food?

"Mmm." I pull the blanket back up and turn my head away from the light spilling in the window.

Oh, come on. You didn't put down extra this morning.

"There was still food left this morning," I point out.

It's gone now. Besides, we're at the bottom of the bag. That food is nasty. You could open the new bag. He licks his paw and steps over me. He makes another attempt at the blanket.

"You'll eat it if you're hungry enough."

I think I am. Try me.

He's a sly one, isn't he?