It isn’t often that illness shuts me down completely, but on Thursday I did the few things that had to be done and then crawled onto the couch. I covered myself with all the living room blankets and slept through most of the day.
Oliver was in heaven. Administering intensive rounds of purr therapy is the most challenging and rewarding part of his job.
But even the pros need to rest after a long day. Lucky for me, I have two. Obi relieved Oliver at about 4 p.m.
I thought I took a picture of Obi stretched the length of my lap – I was holding his feet and his front paws were on my ankles – but I didn’t.
Instead, please enjoy this picture from Friday. I was in my office and Kitten Thunder was on the bed, playing Bed Monster. At some point, Oliver was feeling a little peckish so he left for a snack.
The bed monster was not impressed.
Seriously, this is a gross story.
You should probably stop reading right now.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
This morning started like any other day. The alarm went off. I rolled over to hug The Boy and convince myself to get up. Oliver stomped on us and cried for breakfast.
I got up and followed the kittehs downstairs and gave them breakfast. Then I headed to the bathroom.
From the other side of the door I heard a kitten exploding.
I stepped carefully out of the bathroom and stepped gingerly through the kitchen. I saw no vomit.
What I did see was that all of the breakfast had moved, like magic, to one of the food plates. The kittehs were happily chowing down.
I stood there for a moment. Blinking. Thinking.
The kittehs continued to eat.
I shrugged and went to the couch. The secrets in the sauce.
A note from Obi:
Our purrsons did the following things this weekend:
– refinished a dresser
– dry walled the laundry room
– trimmed the plum tree
– started framing a door
– manned the registration desk at a conference
– went to train club
– layout for the weekly edition of Tidbits
You’ll notice, if you are a good purrson, that there are two things missing from this list:
– adequately snuggle with Oliver
– adequately entertain Obi
Seriously, this is a problem. I mean, yes, The Girl did snuggle with Oliver last night during the movie and for a couple hours after The Boy got up this morning. And an hour after she got up. And yes, The Boy did rub my belly ten times or so during the weekend and play with me on the rubbing rug. And sure, The Girl found Funky Chicken for me. And I laid on her lap a couple times.
But it was all just an afterthought between all that stuff they did. The called it “productive.”
I call it neglective.
Obi Wan Kittenobi
Here’s a picture of Obi giving us a hard, disapproving stare from the laundry room window as we worked in the garage.
By late afternoon, Kitten Thunder was supervising from the cat shelf.
I play on social media for a living. Okay, it is actual real work. Sometimes it is even more hard than fun. But imagine getting sucked into the Facebook time warp…times six because that’s how many different personalities I have. On Facebook. So it is not a good thing for me to “check what is happening on my Facebook pages” at midnight. This is why I was up at 2 a.m. on Sunday morning (a.k.a. Saturday night) for Oliver to ask for breakfast.
We’ve been here before.
“Do you promise to let us sleep in in the morning if I feed you now?”
Yes. Yes, of course he would.
So Sunday morning, he starts in on me. Feed me. Feeeeeed me. FEED ME! He poked me in the nose. He bit my ear. He jumped and lunged and yowled. I flung my arms at him, trying to shove him away. It was obnoxious. I got angrier and angrier. He jumped up on the bed and I shoved him hard. He returned over and over.
Then Oliver poked me gently on the nose and meowed. Feed me?
I was up and out of bed, following him and Obi down the stairs. When we got to the breakfast nook, I snatched him up. “YOU PROMISED!!!” I yelled and pushed him into the stairwell to the basement. I slammed the door shut behind me.
As I walked back up the stairs, I started to wake up a little bit. And I realized…it was all in a dream. Oliver had not done most of what he was in trouble for. Oh. But it was still 7 a.m., far from sleeping in, so I left him in the basement. I crawled back into bed and Obi jumped in with us. Play? The Boy and I rubbed the brown kitten’s belly for a minute. Then he was off – he didn’t want to snuggle.
Two seconds after I closed my eyes, I needed to use the bathroom.
When I returned to bed, I realized I was awake. And guilty.
I went back downstairs and liberated the grey kitten. He fixed me with a questioning gaze: breakfast? No. I picked him up and we snuggled on the couch. It’s the second best thing to breakfast. And nobody – awake or asleep – gets in trouble for snuggles.
Sunday night, I rolled over in bed and found Pine Cone Mousie. Obi must have decided that he needed to bring The Boy a toy to clarify what HE wants in the morning.
The Boy bought a new car a couple weeks ago. You would think that would be reward enough, but a package arrived on Friday that shows the dealership knows how to win the hearts of the whole family.
The Boy can keep his coffee mug. I stole the gummi bears. And the kittehs got the best present of all.
Congratulations to them.
Kitten Thunder knew the day was going to be bad when I started ironing clothes while The Boy was brushing his teeth. You see, I don’t iron my tank tops and jeans. So I was doing the unthinkable: I was preparing to leave the house.
Kitten Thunder did not approve.
Oliver decided to handle it by going missing. He has found a hiding place somewhere in the house for his morning nap. I’ve got no idea where it is. I’ve looked every morning this week.
Obi followed me to the basement to help me get ready. He talked to me for a while from the chair outside the bathroom. Then his meows were further away.
And more urgent.
I went to see where he was and found him in the cutout in the wall to the laundry room. “I am going to get into the ceiling,” he said. I went back into the bathroom.
The cries came again with a hint of panic and I went to see what was wrong. The brown kitten was sitting on the dryer. “I am going to get into the ceiling,” he said.
“Obi,” I said. “I have a meeting. Please don’t make me send a text that says ‘kitten in the ceiling, may be late.'” He walked over to the washing machine and looked back at me.
“I am going to get into the ceiling.”
He sat down, so I continued to get dressed. Just as I finished, the cries from the laundry room became urgent. Panicked. Scared.
I ducked through the hole to the laundry room to find Obi up on the framework, right by the opening into the ceiling where he got stuck a couple weeks ago.
“I’M GOING TO GET IN THE CEILING!” he cried. “I have to. I AM COMPELLED BY FORCES BEYOND MY POWER!”
It was clear that he did not actually want to be in the ceiling, but that he needed me to intervene. So I reached up and plucked him from the framework. As I carried him up the stairs, the brown kitten head butted my chin and started to purr.
“Thank you, Girl.”
What does a kitten do after a near miss like that? He takes a nap on the desk – in his working box – of course.
Oliver and Obi went 50 hours without breakfast. The Boy and I went back to my hometown to see my friends who were in town for their reunion and our kitteh sitter want available. Since it was just one day that they would have to subsist on crunchies, I didn’t call any of our backup sitters. It was cruel. I know. Someone should call the ASPCA.
Cousin Spade was a good host. He very much enjoyed when we returned home late at night after being out drinking with my friends. He helped me brush my teeth. He drank my contact solution. When I moved him over to the stool, he stuck his head up into my towel hanging on the wall and wore it like a veil. Silly kitty.
And he shared his OutTV.
But it’s hard to be on your best behavior when there’s company. Right before we left he refused to come inside from the back yard and threw a major fit. Now he’s grounded. Poor kitty.
And now we’re home. The kittehs were feed. Bellies have been rubbed. We were properly punished and now it is time to go upstairs to read and snuggle with a grey kitten. Happy kitty.
Okay, just furr people knead people. Obi, in particular.
The brown kitten has been into my office several times in the last three hours to see if I’m done working yet. And I wasn’t. Then I was, but I was playing a game. Now I am, and I’m trying to blog. He came in. Sighed. Flopped pathetically to the floor.
Then he walked out.
So what I’m saying here is my kitteh has a need to knead. So here’s the latest Simon’s Cat for you to enjoy while I blow off today’s post.
Oliver is allergic to cow. He reacts to it in a variety of ways. As the main ingredient of a can of cat food, it makes him ill within minutes. Until recently, I hadn’t realized that his kitty crunchies had “meat meal” in them. This contributed to his chin acne – which has cleared up almost completely since switching him to seafood crunchies.
The juice from tonight’s steaks would have caused an immediate and violent kitten tummy explosion.
So the kittehs don’t get to lick steak plates.
Obi is a good boy. He is well mannered and generally follows commands. But tonight? He wanted steak.
He started by getting up on the coffee table after The Boy was done eating so he was eye level with the TV tray. This is kind of bad, but generally okay.
Then he scooted closer to the tray and fixed it with a stare. From me he got a warning.
Then he licked the steak knife. That earned him a scolding from The Boy. We look down on our pets licking the sharp edges of cutlery in this house. But…
It isn’t Obi’s allergy. And it isn’t his fault his brother has the allergy.
As The Boy put the plate down on the floor, I grabbed Oliver and pulled him into my lap. He was not happy. He tried everything to get away so he could take his rightful licks as Alpha food cat. For about five minutes, Oli and I struggled as Obi thoroughly cleaned that plate.
He was VERY thorough.
Toward the end, Oliver was sitting in my lap, pushed as far away as his legs would allow, staring at me with full fuzzy fury. As the brown kitten finished and The Boy picked up the plate, my grip on him relaxed.
He also relaxed. He knew there was nothing left for him. His life is ruined.
But no one exploded.
I generally don’t cook unless it involves a crock pot. The Boy makes our delicious meals and I do the dishes. But, since The Boy was gone this weekend, I was in charge of getting food into my belly. I took advantage of this circumstance to eat foods that The Boy doesn’t like.
Usually that means a junk food pizza, drowning in grease. But I had different ideas this time. Starting with smoothie-a-palooza on Saturday. Obi does not approve of multiple loud trips to the kitchen, but at least I wasn’t using the white box that inevitably leads to the smoke detector going off.
Today, I decided to try an avocado pasta. White box, engaged. Obi sat on the other side of the kitchen to watch the white box and me cutting things at the counter. He brought his tweeting bird with him for reinforcements.
Oliver wanted to be in charge of taste tests. Something about slicing open an avocado must sound like a tuna can because he was twisting around my legs and screaming for me to share. To shut him up, I set the avocado skin down on his breakfast plate. He shoved his face into the skin then backed up two steps and fixed me with a glare. This was NOT tuna. It was nothing he wanted to eat at all.
I tossed the offending skin into the trash can and turned to see Oliver leading Obi out of the room.
The Girl should stick to things in cans.