If I had a doggo with a headcam I think everybody on the stream would be tired of the LOOMING CROTCH SHOTS (augh, what the hell, dude) within about ten minutes. (My eyes, dude, my everything.)
I have made the bed in the guest room, hung up or put away my instruments, and put my comforter on to wash. I want to hang it up outside but it’s a damnedsilly idea when next door is a noisy dirty and continuous construction site.
We had thought poor Buster was running away, but he hasn’t been. He wants to stay close to his hoomins and notes that while the noise is unpleasant we do not flee. (The whole house shakes, sometimes noisily, sometimes violently, sometimes both.) So he has been sitting under the basement stairs on a pile of cardboard, as insulated as he can be from the noise without getting too far from water, food, litter tray and he can bolt to the exit in less than two seconds if he has to. Soft good Buster. Jeff really didn’t want him leaving the house, although he can leave anytime between 5 am and 8 pm, which are the hours of cat door being open.
He’s a free cat – every day he’s got a cat sized version of Camus’ problem. Too smart to want to kill himself – really seems like a mug’s game to something with the intelligence of a cat – his main philosophical question is should he return to the place that smells like home or leave for more salutory adventures? Fortunately he has been ensorcelled by my scritches and Jeff’s general indulgence so at the end of his daily wanderings – rain and sun – it’s only snow that keeps that cat indoors – he returns to his accustomed perches with every sign that he intends to continue treating us like staff except when we’re extra special wiping his bum or taking him to the Pointy Place, or clipping his claws, which he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself thank you.