Things going badly.
Saturday, 16 December 2017 11:14 amThings going badly.
"Can't They Find Me A Kitten That Listens?"*
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I had a stray cat in my house for half the night last night and now I'm sleep-deprived and Meg is mad at me, even though it's his fault this happened.
I went out to the car to get the pasta for my chili (which, by the way, I ruined; the pasta turned to mush. I'm blaming Meg for that, too). As I was coming back inside, Meg dashed outside. This was at 9:30, past his curfew. I tried to get him, but he hid and while I was doing this, my front door was inadvertently propped open by the grocery sack and a cat that had been skulking around our property snuck inside.
(If Carl Reiner is reading this, Mr. Reiner, you have my permission to dramatize this story in any way you see fit, just acknowledge that I inspired it.)
So, now I have one cat who lives with me outside running the streets and another cat I don't even know in my house someplace.
I opened the basement door, hoping she would go that way. I don't know why I thought that would work; it's cold in my basement and clearly she was looking for warmth. But it also smells more of fresh air and freedom. Anyway, it didn't work. And I couldn't find her. I put the pasta in the chili and sat down to watch some more of The Dick Van Dyke Show and wait for my wayward boy to come home and figure out what to do about the interloper.
Meg came home about midnight. By this time I'd napped a little and been to the bathroom. I hadn't seen the stranger, and I was hoping she'd gone to the basement, where she would be easier to deal with in the morning. I closed the basement door and we went to prepare for bed.
Meg leaped onto the bed like nothing was wrong, walked over to the beside table that's over the heating vent, and began to growl and make other threatening sounds. The interloper did the same. She and Meg sound alike and look something alike; she's tabbyish with less white than Meg, and she has orange on her. I'm thinking she's calico, which is one reason I'm calling her "she." (The other reason is I come from German stock and we call cats she by default, as cat is a feminine noun in German.)
Well. What to do at midnight when a strange cat has come into your house to get warm and your own cat disapproves? I've had this happen before, only she wasn't there to get warm; it was summertime and I knew where she lived. She was there because she was curious. It's exactly the kind of thing I can imagine Meg doing. My solution then was to prop the door open, open a couple of windows, and stay up all night. Meg was so thrilled at being able to run in and out all night long, he didn't get threateny, and eventually she found her way out.
This is not a practical plan in December when it's something like twenty-two degrees outside.
And I have no protective gear for capturing unknown cats—and I'm hoping not to lose any limbs. So there was no way I was going to touch her.
Instead, I closed the bedroom door with all three of us inside. If there's one thing I know about cats, it's that they're contrarians by nature. (As am I.) I also turned the heat down, which I do anyway at night, but I wanted it to be less satisfactory to sit near the vent. I told Meg that this was just like in The Desperate Hours, when Humphrey Bogart holds Frederick March's family hostage and that he didn't go attacking Humphrey Bogart, he used psychology on him.
Then I went to bed. I didn't sleep well. I think Meg stayed up on guard all night. There were some rumblings during the night, but no outbreaks of hostility. I remember telling Meg to leave Humphrey alone.
At a little after four, there was a commotion by one of the windows. Meg was still next to me on the bed, so it had to be Humphrey. She yowled and I got up and opened the window, from which she dashed out. Then I closed the window and went back to bed for six hours.
In all of this, I forgot to turn off the crock pot, so the damn chili cooked all night. I had some for breakfast and it was remarkably unsatisfactory.
And for some reason, I feel unsatisfied by my solution to last night's problem. It worked perfectly, but I just know when I tell people about this, they're going to want to know why I wasn't more proactive. The answer is, except for turning my house into an icebox or getting mauled by a strange cat, I literally could not think of another solution. And why I should be feeling like a failure for being right and succeeding, I do not know.
*Stanley Motss
"Can't They Find Me A Kitten That Listens?"*
-:- -:- -:- -:-
I had a stray cat in my house for half the night last night and now I'm sleep-deprived and Meg is mad at me, even though it's his fault this happened.
I went out to the car to get the pasta for my chili (which, by the way, I ruined; the pasta turned to mush. I'm blaming Meg for that, too). As I was coming back inside, Meg dashed outside. This was at 9:30, past his curfew. I tried to get him, but he hid and while I was doing this, my front door was inadvertently propped open by the grocery sack and a cat that had been skulking around our property snuck inside.
(If Carl Reiner is reading this, Mr. Reiner, you have my permission to dramatize this story in any way you see fit, just acknowledge that I inspired it.)
So, now I have one cat who lives with me outside running the streets and another cat I don't even know in my house someplace.
I opened the basement door, hoping she would go that way. I don't know why I thought that would work; it's cold in my basement and clearly she was looking for warmth. But it also smells more of fresh air and freedom. Anyway, it didn't work. And I couldn't find her. I put the pasta in the chili and sat down to watch some more of The Dick Van Dyke Show and wait for my wayward boy to come home and figure out what to do about the interloper.
Meg came home about midnight. By this time I'd napped a little and been to the bathroom. I hadn't seen the stranger, and I was hoping she'd gone to the basement, where she would be easier to deal with in the morning. I closed the basement door and we went to prepare for bed.
Meg leaped onto the bed like nothing was wrong, walked over to the beside table that's over the heating vent, and began to growl and make other threatening sounds. The interloper did the same. She and Meg sound alike and look something alike; she's tabbyish with less white than Meg, and she has orange on her. I'm thinking she's calico, which is one reason I'm calling her "she." (The other reason is I come from German stock and we call cats she by default, as cat is a feminine noun in German.)
Well. What to do at midnight when a strange cat has come into your house to get warm and your own cat disapproves? I've had this happen before, only she wasn't there to get warm; it was summertime and I knew where she lived. She was there because she was curious. It's exactly the kind of thing I can imagine Meg doing. My solution then was to prop the door open, open a couple of windows, and stay up all night. Meg was so thrilled at being able to run in and out all night long, he didn't get threateny, and eventually she found her way out.
This is not a practical plan in December when it's something like twenty-two degrees outside.
And I have no protective gear for capturing unknown cats—and I'm hoping not to lose any limbs. So there was no way I was going to touch her.
Instead, I closed the bedroom door with all three of us inside. If there's one thing I know about cats, it's that they're contrarians by nature. (As am I.) I also turned the heat down, which I do anyway at night, but I wanted it to be less satisfactory to sit near the vent. I told Meg that this was just like in The Desperate Hours, when Humphrey Bogart holds Frederick March's family hostage and that he didn't go attacking Humphrey Bogart, he used psychology on him.
Then I went to bed. I didn't sleep well. I think Meg stayed up on guard all night. There were some rumblings during the night, but no outbreaks of hostility. I remember telling Meg to leave Humphrey alone.
At a little after four, there was a commotion by one of the windows. Meg was still next to me on the bed, so it had to be Humphrey. She yowled and I got up and opened the window, from which she dashed out. Then I closed the window and went back to bed for six hours.
In all of this, I forgot to turn off the crock pot, so the damn chili cooked all night. I had some for breakfast and it was remarkably unsatisfactory.
And for some reason, I feel unsatisfied by my solution to last night's problem. It worked perfectly, but I just know when I tell people about this, they're going to want to know why I wasn't more proactive. The answer is, except for turning my house into an icebox or getting mauled by a strange cat, I literally could not think of another solution. And why I should be feeling like a failure for being right and succeeding, I do not know.
*Stanley Motss