I’m already bored with calling my weekly blog Tuesday Sweets. I’m feeling a little sour today, actually. Annoyed. Fur in a knot. Deeply disappointed. Like someone else caught the mouse even though I did all of the chasing to tire it out.
…My people have never attempted to dress me up for special occasions. I think they know better. They wouldn’t dare force me to wear something spooky on Halloween, nor will they adorn me with a fuzzy sweater or boots this winter. (I don’t venture outside, after all.) But there is one item I wouldn’t shake off if placed on my perfect head: a cowboy hat.
…I understand that there was an election last night. I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the issues since all feline-related questions were overlooked in the campaign. So, the candidates can talk to the paw as far as I’m concerned.
…This week, I’ll answer a reader’s question. Yes, I get mail! And I get Facebook and Twitter comments, delivered to me by my second-favourite human: Mother.
…Not to worry, my beloved treat dispensers. This doesn’t mean I’m giving up on my blog posts. It just means that, so I’m told, this is my last entry before a move that I’m led to believe will possibly be the last one for some time. Maybe. It’s hoped!
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Malcolm Gladwell claims it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. As a result, I’ve decided that next week, ten blogs will make me an expert blogger. I am a cat, after all. We convert knowledge into expertise much more quickly than humans do.
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I love Father more than treats, my bacon toy or kibble. Perhaps you know the history, perhaps you don’t. Mother adopted me on her birthday a few years ago. She waited for me to get well because when we met, I was wearing an ugly cone and experiencing some gastric distress. When I finally came home with her and laid eyes on Father, I knew I’d found my protector and BFF for life. Mother says tiny hearts flew up like sparks between us. But I have to confess that I’ve developed a crush on another man.
…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.
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If you’ve ever dreamed of spending your days on a boat, cruising a river, you might envy 32 cows in the Netherlands.
…I’ve been busy, dear readers, applying my fur to every square inch of this generously-sized apartment. The carpet is a cat-hair-hiding beige, but there’s also a large, dark rug to roll on. It is my personal goal that eventually each piece of this rented domicile will experience the joy of my spiky hair.
…My usual sense of careless joy deteriorated into a sense of ennui the likes of which no feline before me has ever had to endure. But, dear readers, I am nothing if not resilient. Things seemed to improve and my disposition experienced a boost along with them.
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There is nothing left in this house except the things that belong to me. My scratching post that looks like a bent toilet brush, my basket of toys and brushes. Best of all, my fuzzy, puffy pouf and of course, my food. I must face the fact that we are camping now. The furniture upon which I leave my fur is now but a memory. These humans cannot be reasoned with. Take note of my facial expression. This air mattress has no give!
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My world is upside down, and not just because my belly is in the air in hopes of inspiring a tummy rub. The humans previously referred to as Father and Mother are nearly unrecognizable. They run past me in a blur of cardboard and crumpled paper, muttering to themselves and each other about not forgetting this or that. But the ultimate horror befell me this week. An occurrence so frightening that I dared not even consider its possibility. I will never get over it.
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My humans have been more active than usual. On more than one tiresome occasion, I’ve been forced to summon them with my loudest wail, to remind them to submit to my whims: brushing, petting, feeding and general adoration.
…This is not a time to go shopping for house stuff. When we’re about to pack it all up and we don’t even know where we’ll live between homes, adding to the cupboards isn’t advisable. But what about the walls?
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Does it ever feel like the noise is too much? Not the actual noise, the noise made by social media.
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I don’t remember how I came to know about Barn Sanctuary in Chelsea, Michigan, but even though I’m a meat eater, I’m a fan of what they do. When I first followed them on Twitter, their fan base was in the hundreds. Now they’re closing in on 30,000 followers.
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