Fear and Trembling

As readers of my houseblog will know, I've been having issues with my furnace.

I hope I will not have issues to report concerning my ductwork. Kitteh issues.

This is the grille to my study heat supply. It is not supposed to be halfway off like this. It was not like this last time I was up here, Saturday evening or so.


I recognize the work: Huw, or more likely Gwenith. She's the one who goes after loose pieces of plaster on the walls. She's the one who sits under my drafting table and fiddles with the computer leads. She's the one who, as a feral kitten, sloped down under the floorboards of my friend Hannah's* torn-up house and had to be lured out with tuna. Gwenith is secretive and curious and, under all that hair, small and wiry enough to squirm right down this vent, given half the chance.

I don't want to give her a chance. I fetched a screwdriver to make the loose screw secure.

But I can't. There's no hole at the wall to receive it. It's only providing a bit of tension to keep the grille against the duct mouth. No challenge at all to a strong and determined young cat.

Think of something else. I need to think of something else. No, duct-taping the grille to the wall won't do. Never mind what it'd do to the paint or the heat supply-- that floofy kitteh of mine would rip it right off.

The Just Deserts of Greed

This is-- or was-- a coupon for dog treats. I pulled it out of Llewellyn's food cannister a couple nights ago and put in on the table till I could see what it was for.

Next morning, I came downstairs and found it in shreds, scattered across the dining room floor!

I tried to put back together, but too many pieces were missing. Llewellyn, old boy, wii haedid uz a ttreetz koopon, butt U eatid it!

So it went in the trash for tomorrow's pickup. O doggie, my goggie, now we'll never know if these were treats of bloomiferous scrumptuosity. It's back to finishing the same old nuggets from the Three Dog Bakery. Foiled by your own precipitous greed!

(And my naivete.)

(Though being such a nice momma, I did save you a wee piece of turkey from Thanksgiving at my friends' . . . )

Itt Snoezez!!

Kanz it B eetid?

Sumbuddy tored up teh skiiy.

Ai kan jummp doan dere. Wach mii!

Stoopy goggie in teh whey agin. Ai goes bugz mai siszterz.

Well, They Showed ME!

Last night, to conserve the heat, I got the cats in the bedroom and shut the door.

And so we spent the night, till dawn approached and Huw was scratching from the inside to get out and Llewellyn the dog was scratching from the outside to get in.

Sorry, kids, I'll get up and open the door when the clock radio comes on and not a minute sooner.

So in the fullness of time I did. I made my morning ablutions and dressed, and, it being a bit chilly, I started to put on a cardigan I had lying there in the bedroom.

The cardie was cold. Not surprising.

The cardie was wet. What?

The cardie was so wet, it was getting the clothes I had on wet.

It was wet and stinky.

Cat pee!

Somebody can't hold his water overnight! Either that, or somebody's getting revenge for being made to stay in the bedroom all night.

(Huw, I'm looking at you.)

Well, so much for wearing that cardie today. Or the turtleneck I'd put on under it. Got them both out of there, but the bedroom still stunk. And I could not recall where the sweater had been lying when I picked it up.

Awkward.

Stripped the bed. No evidence of cat pee anywhere on it.

Remade the bed. Room still smelled of cat pee.

Decided I was imagining things, till later this afternoon when I checked the throw cushion on a wooden chair that sits in the corner of the bedroom. Yep, there's the stain. And the smell. Cover and cushion, there's more for the laundry! There was a cardboard calendar on top of it. More stink. That's for the outside trash.

I believe-- I hope-- the bedroom has been exorcised. But when it comes to my little spooks (Huw, I'm still looking at you), tonight I guess I'd better leave them a way out.

They obviously showed me.

A Tale of Horror

It's getting close to Halloween. And while I like a good tale of horror as much as the next person, that doesn't mean I appreciate featuring in one in real life.

But for a few minutes this evening, I did.

It was a little after 7:00, and I was cleaning up after a very busy Sunday afternoon. I happened to look into the living room here at the House of the Flying Furballs, and noticed that Rhadwen, my ten-year-old calico, was perched up on the sill of one of the little windows next to the fireplace. The window was open, the screen was up, and she was more outside than in.

"Rhadwen!" I called. "Wennie! Turn around!!"

No reaction.

I walked over and saw that she was hanging head and shoulders over the edge of the outer sill. Trying to make up her mind whether to jump down and explore. That's what I figured it was. It's a fur piece, so to speak, to the ground at that point; she probably was considering whether it would be worth it at her age.

Well, I wasn't going to give her the opportunity to try. I grabbed her by her furry middle and hauled her inside.

Yeeoouwwwwoauwwww!!!!! she didn't appreciate that! She howled at the indignity. Worse for her, the dog was on the scene, playing officious big brother and making sure justice was done.

She didn't claw me: I had hold of her so she couldn't. I gave her a little more food in her dish to soothe her ruffled feelings and to give thanks for not having to go out in the rain to chase her. Then I started back to my sweeping.

But wait a minute. When I'd pulled Rhadwen in through the window, she hadn't turned around and yowled at me. There was something about it that hinted she was irate at something outside.

And a few minutes before, when I'd gone out front to light my jack-o'-lantern for the first time, I'd heard something in my front bushes. I'd dismissed it then as me myself having brushed against them, but now . . .

Aw-oh! Where one cat can sit and perch and stare, two other cats can be through and away. The kittens. Where were the kittens?

"Gwenith! Huw!" I searched all over the house, from middle to top to bottom. No sign of the floofy pale pink tabby or the sleek brown and gray. Not in the box spring in the Kitten Room, not under my bed in the bedroom, not under the table in the study, not under the stairs in the basement. There were no kittens to be found, in litter box or in empty packing box, in dropcloth or ironing basket: my little cats had disappeared.

They're good at disappearing, of course. They'd disappeared all afternoon when I had company over. But now there was a strong possibility they'd apparated themselves right off the premises, through that gaping screenless window.

So out I went, tramping miles and miles through the freezing, merciless rain in the blazing cold night, searching relentlessly for my lost kittehs.

Well, no, actually, it was around 60 degrees outside this evening and I only went round to the side of the house under the living room window. But it was dark and staring to rain.

No sign of my little cats. "Huw! Gwenith!" Huw I hoped would come stalking up to me. Gwenith is more skittish: what would she do if she were spooked? But Rhadwen's behaviour told me they might be-- please, God!-- were out there. "Gwenith! Huw!"

But I found nothing.

I looked in the front border. Nothing.

Maybe it would help if I located a flashlight? Yes, perhaps.

Thus equipped, I tried again. The rain was starting to come down harder. I had to find my kittehs. "Huw!! Gwenith!!" I called. "Gwenith! Huw!"

All of a sudden, under the weeping cherry, a moving gray-striped shadow, a flash of white breast.

"Huw! Baby, come here!"

He wouldn't come. He moved deeper into the vegetation.

I moved closer, made a grab. Missed! "Huw! Please! Come here! Where's your sister?"

He turned tail and ran into the front border. I followed, stepped over the sheet-covered dahlias, and tried to secure him again. His wet body slipped through my grasp and behind the Alberta spruce.

"Huw, please!!"

I came around again, just as he made a break for it to head for the neighbors' spirea. Aaaghh!! Got him! He was slick and wet and squirmy, but I gathered him into my arms and carried him into the house, placing him in the custody of Llewellyn who doubtless gave him what-for for his illicit escapade.

But his littermate was still out there. I had to assume that. Back out into the rain.

"Gwenith! Gwen!" Had she squeezed into the neighbors' yard? She's supple enough. Had she heard the call of the wild and taken off to parts unknown? I combed and recombed the wet bushes on both sides of the little side yard, while in the neighborhood all around me the heedless households were huddled around their televisions, watching whatever it was the Steelers and the Giants were doing to one another. Dismayed, I steeled myself for the possibility that I'd have to go petitioning up and down the street for the neighbors to keep an eye out for my missing cat.

It was time to bring out the big guns: Some fragrant gushiefood in a little dish. Oh, please, please, let a bribe work! It does indoors, when she hides in the attic storage space! Please don't let her be so confused and disoriented she won't come!

One last look in the yard under the guilty window, one last admittance of futility. I set the dish down on the front step near the lighted jack-o'-lantern and hoped she'd be willing to come.

But then, I don't know what it was, something moved me to look in the bushes on that side of the house. I shone my flashlight behind each, and there, behind the boxwood shrub closest to the gate to the back yard, was an tawny oval furry shape, a dry tawny oval furry shape, huddled next to the house, the head invisible, hiding in the foliage.

"Gwenith!"

She didn't budge.

I went and got the food. "Gwenith!"

She still didn't budge.

Here was a reversal, but a happy one. I had just one chance to secure her, and I took it. She squirmed, just a little, but seemed just as glad as not to be rescued and brought inside.

She and her brother got a serving of fragrant gushiefood to reward them for-- well, for being alive and found, and their big sister Rhadwen got some, too, for staring out that open window and clueing me into what was going on.

As to why the living room window was open at all, that's another tale in another blog. But diolch a Dduw! my scary story ended happily.

Very happily, when I think how it's supposed to get below freezing and maybe snow tonight. Thinking of that is a real horror story.

Sh!t Eating Grin

As if to prove there is no such thing as a dog without a mind of his own, yesterday morning I learned that Llewellyn is clever and well-trained when he wants to be; other times he's just clever.

I'd noticed this weekend a couple times that my Kitten Room security system of a bungee cord hooked round the doorknob with the other end hooked to a screweye, with a doorstop (aka a flat rock) between the door and the jamb to make a gap big enough to let in cats and only cats was not doing its job. It's always worked before. Had I just forgotten to fasten the cord hook to the screweye? Had the kittens been playing with the rock and pushed it out of the way so the bungee cord lost tension and let the door swing free?

Or has the cord gotten just loose enough that Llewellyn can widen the opening and push through?

I've never caught any of us in the act. But hearing the scrape of claws on the hardwood floor of the hallway around dawn yesterday morning, immediately followed by a thump, thump from the door of the Kitten Room, and given that the door was open when I finally hauled myself out of bed to face the worst, I suspect teh goggie.

It's not the cat food I'm worried about him getting. No. It's what I know he's treating himself to when I see piles of organic corn cat litter pawed out onto the mat by the litter box. It's what I can smell on his breath when he presents himself to me with the selfsame corn cat litter festooning his muzzle.

You've heard of a sh!t-eating grin? Mai goggie, hee haz itt.

Whut shal wie du, whut shal wee doo!

No place else to move the litter box and still have one on the second floor. Get a new bungee cord? Attach a chain lock on the outside of the door?

For the time being, I've looped the existing bungee cord around back of the doorknob. Gives it more tension. It's working, so far, but give him time, Llewellyn will find a way to outsmart it. He's too clever for his own good.

A Well-Trained Dog

My dog Llewellyn amazes me by how smart he is.

I don't say that because he's my dog. I say it because he sometimes behaves better and more cleverly than even I've trained him to.

There's his practice lately of not letting me lie down and sleep on the carpet. I only do it when I'm in my study late at night waiting for things to download . . . well, usually . . . and once when I was dizzy. Anyway, I try to lie down and he forces his body under me and makes me get up.

But there's something else. Often Llewellyn will be lying or standing or moseying right in my path, right where I want to go. I command, "Llewellyn, move!" expecting him to proceed ahead of me out of the room or down the stairs, wherever I'm going. But instead he just moves to the side, more and more he's just moving to the side.

This was annoying. Didn't he know what I wanted? "Llewellyn, get going! Move!!"

And he moves. Not ahead, aside. Then falls in behind me to follow me as I pass through the door or set foot on the steps.

After that, he'll run on ahead, but not until.

And a day or two ago, it dawned on me: He's acknowledging my authority. He's taking his proper doggy place in my wake. I read something in a book by veterinarian Dr. Nicholas Dodson, Dogs Behaving Badly, where he says that "Access along corridors and across thresholds is so important to would-be leaders that these zones are typical testing grounds for dominance." And somewhere along the line, my dog has got me placed as his leader, and he's not going to let me forget it.

Now if he'd only mind and shut up when he starts up barking out the window first thing in the morning!