It is kind of disconcerting if the vet calls your ferocious feline “Mäuschen” (mousy).
Cat Vet Fear Sweat
Henry needed his regular shots and I took him this morning (not without phoning first and finding out if there were any new times or rules – there weren’t). Our previous cats shed when they were scared – Socks used to leave enough hair after a visit to the vet to knit a sweater with.
But Henry is not a shedder, he is a sweater. He sweats so much through his paws that he leaves little paw prints on the exam table. In fact, he slid on the wetness. And his ignorant tin opener (that should probably read “pouch ripper” these days) couldn’t help but laugh. Shame on me.
Henry’s trying mind control
“Mhm, no treat yet. And she doesn’t notice my sullen expression.” “I know. I’ll show my teeth.” “It worked. Here it comes!”
How to get treats at unusual times
By popular request of a single fan who asked me today privately: “Where is the f@*ing cat?” After I told him that Henry was fine albeit not f@*ing anymore since he had the snip we had a chat and then I started to look around – where in fact was Henry?
We had been lazy today and ordered food (If the prophet can’t go to the food, let the food come to the prophet, I say.) and I admit that amongst paying the delivery guy and salivating in anticipated pleasures I forgot to pay attention that the door was open. Had Henry slipped out?
He is an outdoor cat but we have been careful never to let him in the stairwell. We don’t want him to leave through the front door because of the road with cars and dogs. He has got the whole back yard to roam. True, if he really is interested in the other side of life we won’t be able to stop him but I wouldn’t want to encourage him.
I called for him behind the house – no answer. I walked up and down the stairwell and except for a curious neighbour – no answer. I checked in the garage – no answer. I finally ventured outside (in my slippers, my old baggy pants I wouldn’t be caught dead in normally – just the curlers were missing) and called for Henry. Just when I was about to give up, he appeared high up on the garage building, looking down on me and scolding me. Presumably for disturbing the neighbourhood in the middle of the night.
Back in the flat I let him in and gave him some treats. Was that cat psychology – make him appreciate coming when called? Or was it “how to train your human”? No idea.
Thou shalt not iron #2
When Henry is not sitting in his cardboard box on top of the ironing board – the pièce de resistance in our living room – he is curled up in the washing basked on top of the fresh laundry. I have taken to covering my washed clothes with a cloth – freshly washed, of course, as he is not to be fooled. I’ve been trying to iron for the last two days and whenever I approach the basket to do it, Henry defends his bedding fiercely, claws out and teeth bared.
Although I admit, I am not fighting him very resolutely on this.
The mighty hunter before the lens
A mouse is a mouse is a mouse.
Even if the mouse is pink and made with crochet needles.
The best things in life are cheese
Why is there a bowl of grated (delicious, Swiss) cheese on my coffee maker? Why do you even ask?
It was the only place that Henry couldn’t reach, and not for want of trying. I usually pinch off a piece of chicken or meat when I’m cooking as a treat for him, put it in his bowl and he is happy and content and leaves me alone after that. I hadn’t thought of him being interested in our meatless dinner of spätzle last night. He is developing quite an interesting taste in foods, it seems.
Let my kitty go!
Overnight stay of our grandson. He and Henry are great friends. Henry’s subtle hint that he’d rather live with him:
justifiCATion
After I inadvertently deleted a very kind comment on my blog (and couldn’t retrieve it), I send an excuse to the person and added as – totally true – explanantion that my cat had walked over the keyboard at the wrong moment.
I think that must be the digital equivalent to the old “my dog ate my homework”.
Compromising with a cat
After over a year of scouring numerous pet stores, internet sites, and do-it-yourself books Henry and I are finally ready to chose his bed. It should be comfortable and snuggly and complement the decor of our living room, without being obtrusive.
We had our differences. I favoured an elegant powder-blue cat cave made of new wool of New Zealand sheep, handcrafted by Lithuanian peasants, placed in a cozy, sunny corner. Henry preferred the brownish, flimsy cardboard box on top of the ironing board.
We have reached a compromise. He now sleeps in a sturdy cardboard box. On top of the ironing board. In the middle of the living room. Where it is now a permanent fixture.
The mind boggles. So does the cat.
PS: The box is kind of blue.
Henry 