Kitten Balls

If you wash a sheet that has been used as a cave for five months, your washer will be filled with little balls of kitten. Like, thirty of them.

And that’s all I have to say about that.


When we first moved into this house, we discovered that Obi can climb ladders. By this, I mean the shelf supports that go up the wall in one of my closets. For a whole year I have been careful not to leave that closet unattended so I wouldn’t end up with a kitten in the ceiling.

You’d think a cat would forget. They forget where they are going as they are walking across the living room. They forget what toy they are playing with if it goes past a different toy. They forget where they leave their people if they leave the room.

Obi did not forget.

In the time it took me to make a space for some clothes, walk across the basement to get said clothes, and return to the closet, Oliver had settled himself on my sweaters and Obi was in the ceiling.

Just like that.

This side of the house seems to be as boring as the other. Obi walked the width of the house, trapped between two joists. Then he came back. Then he did it again. Then he came back. He wanted to explore another line, but to get between different joists he had to hop down to the top shelf and he was immediately gotten.

Poor kitten.


An aside about clothing: I have too much. My closets are full and the basement and garage still have full Rubbermaids. I need advice on how to weed out my wardrobe. Obviously, things that don’t fit are going to charity. Plus, short skirts because my knees are too old to be seen in public. I know there’s some rule about things you haven’t worn for a certain amount of time, but I have a problem with that. For the last three years I worked in a basement where no one saw me. So I wore the same ten outfits – it was handy because they never got put away. So, any other ideas?

6 responses to “Kitten Balls

  1. Those are not happy kitten ears.

    When I think about cleaning out my closet, I always imagine getting rid of things that don’t fit, and then things I just don’t like. Then, in the fantasy world in which I’m a well-organized person, I make piles of each kind of thing (jeans, sweaters, etc.), and then I go to, say, the sweater pile, decide how many sweaters I need, and keep that many of my favorites. In reality, though, I’ve never done anything like that.

    • When I didn’t have The Boy I had twice as many closets and didn’t have to worry about it.

      This picture is actually from Obi’s first day with us. He was napping and Oliver came along and thwacked him on the head. Obi is wondering who did the thwacking.

  2. I can’t help — I don’t clean out my closets/drawers/etc. until Dear Sweet Mama comes to visit and shames me for hoarding clothes that could be being worn by skinny homeless people insteading of fueling my delusions that I can somehow get back down to a size 5!

    • Clothes that don’t fit I don’t have a problem with. I just wish more of my clothes didn’t fit so I wouldn’t have to deal with my problem. The “I haven’t worn this in forever but that’s because I forgot I had it” problem.

  3. I love when cats do that with their ears. I think Obi has now made it his goal in life to get back up there.

    • The Boy has suggested that we could do something silly like put a ceiling in the closet. That would solve the problem. Last night after we blogged we were in the spare room and Obi was trying to figure out if he could jump from the ironing board, through the tiny bit of open closet door, land on my hanging clothes and get over to the shelf and into the ceiling. I shut the closet all the way and told him to stop thinking.

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