Every morning she climbs up on me and ritually sneezes in my face. This is, according to the lad I got her from, pretty normal.
She is struggling less and less when I brush her; when she’s about as relaxed as I can expect, I’ll bathe her. Jeff has made me swear a mighty oath that I won’t do it unless he can film the entire thing. I’m thinking we should film it AND get stills. It’s gonna be an event. Now kitty is stalking the power cord for the MacBook. Now she’s chasing Gizmo off his food dish…. bad plan.
To be able to wake up at 2 am, with her just out of my sleepthrashing range on the bed, instantly purring when I reach out to touch her ludicrously soft fur, is the most beautiful thing in my life right now. I know I kinda ‘bought a friend’ but there was no guarantee she would even like me, and but she’s showing every sign of liking me a lot, rushing up to me when I come home from work. She likes Jeff fine, but I’m the one who cleans her and brushes her, so she knows who mom is.
She’s got the boys completely whipped, and it hasn’t even been two weeks.
When Katie was here for dinner two Sundays ago Margot jumped onto the blue exercise ball in the living room. Jeff reports that she has now jumped onto the ball and stood on it for a second and then jumped off. I wish I had somebody who could circus train her, she’s got native talent. The man who runs the cat circus (and while looking for him I found the Charles Mingus Cat Toilet Training Program, apparently written by the bassist himself) says that by watching a cat carefully you can tell if they have a certain bent and then you very slowly and patiently shape the behaviour until they are pushing strollers full of other cats, walking on high wires, walking on their front paws, and doing complicated dance routines with other cats, among the many other bizarre things he’s trained cats to do.
Hm. Well, I’ve been remiss in reporting the social news. Dr. Filk paid us a flying visit on Friday, and mightily glad was I to see him, and he found la belle Margot entertaining.
Paul and the kids were by for Sunday dinner and we watched Jurassic Park. Paul brought the best pork roast, and we had onions and carrots and taters and corn, so it was a real Sunday dinner.
No date with my new friend this past weekend, I’ve been feeling a bit off colour and my foot is still hurting like a b9st9rd so anything involving more than about ten blocks of walking finishes me off. Yes, I should see a doctor, but for what? To get told it’s sprained ligaments and I should get orthotics? I am so tired of going to the doctor and finding out I’m a jeezly hypochondriac. Given that I’m fifty I’m sure I’ll get bad news eventually but every health scare I’ve had except for my back – which is the same as always, thanks – has turned out to be figmentary. Actually, I took Robaxicet last night and I had an AWESOME night’s sleep.
Just fixed poached eggs and toast for brekkie, and I am now contemplating a second cup of coffee. Oh Margot, quit chewing on the cable….. If you get electrocuted, nobody will be able to tell.
The landpeers have rearranged the way they park their vehicles so I can use the walkway. Jeff and I are responding by ensuring they have the rent cheques in hand in about fifteen minutes. It’s actually kinda handy having the landpeers that close.
I handed out biscotti at work yesterday. Man, I love doing that.
I wish I could blog about work. But continued employment beckons encouragingly, so I will defer to my more sensible, grownup, beaten down by capitalizm self, and keep my icecream siphon closed.
Speaking of ice cream. I brought some home last night. Then I said to Jeff, “Screw this noise… Dessert, it’s what’s for supper.” Thus my atonement with a nourishing and sensible brekkie today.