A weekend with Obi

“There’s a dog on this book. I thought it was a present. Who would want a dog?”

On Saturday, we had a party to go to for a little boy. It turned out I had a headache and the idea of going to the Party Pony with a bunch of happy, screaming five year olds was intolerable. But I didn’t know that when Obi and I wrapped the present.

“This is MY box. Be gone!”

This morning, Obi and I were downstairs working out. He found an empty box balanced on another box. There was much cuteness. Then the box tipped and he struggled to find some way to lay comfortably.

Eventually, I stepped in and leveled the box. All was well with the world.

“If you’re going to stay, would you at least go get us some cheese?”

And then we did a little Photoshop.

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Purr Therapy

I have a good life. I do. I’ve got the love of a good man, a roof over my head, a back-up roof (now under contract, woo hoo!), and a job that – if nothing else – pays for me to have both those roofs.

But sometimes the little things in life pile up. Sometimes a girl just has to cry to let the weight go.

Like today at lunch time.

"Is it over?"

Poor Obi was just getting his belly rubbed when all of a sudden the tears started coming. Of course he was concerned, but purr therapy is in the job description of the Chief Executive Kitten. Obi purred at me. He hug-butted me. He went to the end of the couch and looked desperately for Oliver. Then he came back to me.

Eventually, Oliver showed up to take over. Oliver is probably the best purr therapist I have ever had. He is very calm and just lays beside me and purrs. Once in a while he’ll pat my face or kiss my chin. And the hugs come steadily. It really works quite well.

And, of course, since he is a professional there is always follow up care. Every time I’ve been sitting down this evening he has been in my lap. An extra purr to support the initial therapy.

The things that were wrong this morning are still wrong this evening. But I feel better now.

Oliver is taking a long nap before bedtime – purr therapy is hard work.

It’s Thunder Thursday! This week’s guest fuzzy is Dot. Dot is the head salespuppy at Deselms Fine Art here in Cheyenne. She belongs to my friend Harvey. The art – including mine if I can get my backside into the workshop – and Dot make a visit to the gallery worthwhile whenever you are in Cheyenne.

"Just how 'still' do I have to be for this painting?"

No, please, stay a while.

Three snack packs of Whoppers, two flat leopard print mousies, one teddy bear mouse, one cloth mousie, one fur mousie, one drinking straw, a pen, a milk ring, a ball and a rose from the palm tree wall thing I bought in Savannah when I just knew we were going to buy this house when I got back. That’s what came out from under the couch last night from just one swipe of the magic toy making stick. And, of course, there was also enough cat hair to knit another kitten.

We really ought to hurry up and open that kitten knitting factory. Every time we throw away a wad of hair we lose money. Oliver says we can charge double for grey ones – they’re softer and so much more handsome.

"So many toys, so little attention span...hey, that actually works out okay!"

For Thunder Thursday, I present my parents’ other cat, Gracie. Gracie made sure we knew exactly how happy she was to welcome us into her home this week.

"Why haven't you caught on fire yet? I really need to get my laser eyes checked out."

This is Gracie’s crabby look. I didn’t get a picture of her wide-eyed glare of death. There is not a doubt in my mind that she’s thinking flammable thoughts at us.

I feel obligated to tell you my mother says Gracie gets a bad rap. She supposedly snuggles and is nice to people as long as “people” is my parents. Possibly my niece and nephew.

And now, why Gracie hates me more than any of the others: Poco.

My parents built their house when I was in Junior High. Poco was always and adventurous cat and she loved car rides so she went to the house several times while it was under construction. When we moved in she already knew the layout and wasn’t afraid at all. By the time Stasha and Stoney ventured out of the bed they hid under for two weeks, Poco was the queen. And when we got our malamute, Heidi, Poco was the queen of her too.

Then Po and I went away to college.

While we were away, Gracie was adopted. Gracie is a dilute tortie but she is all attitude. She and our huge dog became best buddies. And Gracie took her place as queen of the house.

Then I graduated. And moved home while I looked for a job.

So here’s Queen Gracie: seven pounds, tiny, BIG attitude. Also, her voice box has been permanently damaged since birth so her meow is a wispy puff of air. And then there’s Queen Poco: 18 pounds, huge, BIGGER attitude. While we lived in Idaho, Poco had beaten up the cats of every landlord I had. And two dogs. Her thug-iness is part of why I have strictly indoor cats now.

The thing is this. I think Poco would have been fine just dividing the kingdom and staying upstairs in our room for the most part. But the upstairs belongs to Gracie. And every night when the people went to bed, she’d come sneaking up to spy on Poco and try to take back some of her territory.

One night, as I was laying in bed, I heard the cry of a cat downstairs. Not Stoney. Not Poco. I raced to the stairwell and threw the lights on so I could see over the rail into the living room below. My parents came from their side of the house. There in the living room was Poco. She was pressing so hard on Gracie’s throat that an actual meow was coming out. And her first cry was most definitely a cry for help.

Of course we broke up the fight. Of course Gracie came back for more the next night. And the night after that. Luckily, Poco and I move out and Gracie is back to being the queen.

All hail, Queen Gracie. Long may she rage, er, reign.

Sylvan for Squirrels

First, a random funny: this is what Obi would look like if you cut off all his hair and he was really, really, REALLY happy about it.

"Well hi!"

This is from http://goodmorningkitten.com which is how I like to start every day.

The other day I accused the squirrels of Cheyenne of being stupid. But that wasn’t really fair. Everyone learns differently and I shouldn’t have assumed that my squirrels would learn the same way the seller of the feeder’s squirrels learned. So on Tuesday I put a nail in the feeder to hold the lid up a little bit. Just enough that if they saw the nuts and tried to get their face in, it would lift the lid. But…would it work?

For two days I didn’t see a single squirrel. But, today as I drove up to the house at lunch, there were two squirrels working their way across the street. I knew just where they were headed. I sat in the car with bated breath.

The female squirrel was in the lead and I’m thinking she’s expecting kittens because she is OVER the male. She chased him off the porch every time he followed her up there. When he got the hint and went to get birdseed off the window sill, she set her mind to peanuts.

She approached the feeder. She tilted her head left. She tilted her head right. Then…ZOOM! She ran off the porch and up a tree to avoid the Corgi who was walking his owner down the sidewalk. I’d have been more mad, but that dog dragged his owner across my yard and into the tree before he knew what hit him. Or what he hit, rather.

And it gave me a chance to get into the house.

As I was getting out sandwich fixings, the squirrel returned. Again, she contemplated. She jumped up on top of the feeder. Grr, I thought. But then she shimmied down the side and *bloop* into the feeder went her head and out she came with a peanut. Success! Yay!

She repeated the process three times before she had to zoom off again because of two blue jays arrived to check out the porch. Obi had been watching the squirrel with half interest – my pastrami with the other half – and I suspect that the squirrel programming has been going on for two days. Blue jays, however, get him interested. Sink down low the sill, push your ears down flat, holy cow those are big birds interested.

I’m thrilled to see the jays. In the nine years I lived at my other house I only had blue jays in my yard once. My other house is one mile away. The difference in wildlife in that one mile drives me crazy.

Just for giggles, I’m going to feature a fuzzy (or scaley, Zen reminds me) from you guys each Thunder Thursday. We’ll start with my aunt’s cats, Benjy and Fred, because they’re the ones who inspired me to get Oliver a brother. Without them, there may be no thunder.

"Does this brother make me look fat?"