Mother and I have a disagreement about this blog series. After all, it’s titled Moving Diary, but we aren’t going anywhere. Are we? We appear to be settled in high-rise city life, indefinitely.
My job, as I see it, is to find new and increasingly more comfortable places in which to sleep. I take this task seriously. To that end, Mother purchased a couple of quilted couch covers in order to improve the feel of the slippery faux-leather in the furnished apartment. She smooths them out and I scrunch them up and wriggle inside until I resemble the filling in a feline burrito.
Father actually recorded my snore, which he (thankfully) describes as “adorable”. Please note that the volume was enhanced for easier listening.
However, they find me a little less adorable when I remove a chunk of wet food from my dish and place it on the carpet to eat. Oh, who am I kidding? They think that’s adorable too! Everything from butt scooting to water drinking makes these two break into wide grins. They look at me like John Goodman used to look at cheesecake.
One observation I’ve made gives me mild concern. The emptied plastic bins and cardboard boxes remain piled in a corner of the room. This is not normal. Mother is obsessively neat and well-organized. She’d wear her label-maker in a holster on her hip if they made one. Keeping the totes in plain view is out of character for her. Therefore, I’ve filed this away as a mental note that I occasionally revisit briefly between naps.
As children return to school tomorrow, Mother and Father rejoice. Now that they’re members of the Y, they are happy about fewer “rug rats” at the facility during the day. For example, a small child running in a herd stepped on the back of Mother’s shoe last week and proceeded to fall and cry. When Mother turned around to see what happened, the child’s parent emitted a harrumph as if Mother had done something wrong. Also, Mother mentioned her enjoyment of “urine-free swimming”. I’m not sure what that means and she claims she is only joking. Let’s hope!
Although it is Labour Day, my friends, my labour has now come to an end for another week. I shall dream a blissful dream of a cat that has no cares. Mother and father continue to shut themselves into the walk-in closet, which means they’re recording voice-work, so they will be able to afford my food. And other than full bowls, my daily brushing and scritches, what more could I possibly need? In the words of my celebrity crush, the late, great Grumpy Cat:
Kibble with you next week!