The Beasts Speak

A little while ago, Laura, from Trout Talkin’ Tabbies (http://da-tabbies-o-trout-towne.blogspot.ca), was kind enough to suggest that my beasts would make good subjects for an interview in Mousebreath, the internet lifestyle magazine for cats. I’m always open to ideas as to how to get more people to know my bunch, so the Funny Farmer Felines, of Jan’s Funny Farm (http://jansfunnyfarm.blogspot.com), sent me some questions for the cats to answer.

If you are interested in the results, go to http://mousebreath.com/2015/08/josie-renn-tucker-cammie-and-noah-speak/ and read what they all had to say.

While you’re there, take a look at the other articles in Mousebreath. They are informative and entertaining. The internet is a good place to be a cat!

Courteous in Her Displeasure

There was something positive about the visit to the veterinary on Monday. It was actually a double-date. Cammie went with Tucker and me. She is still very reluctant to have me cut her claws. I was able to get two of them, but thereafter, she was on to me, and was very resistant. So, off to the veterinary hospital she went, too.

The princess was attended to by a technician (her 'lady-in-waiting') while the doctor saw Tucker. I stayed with the roly poly. I was worried about Cammie being away from me during her little procedure, but when she was returned, the technician informed me that there had been no problem. It was stated that Cammie “didn’t like it, but was very nice about not liking it.” That’s my girl.

She is such a surprising little creature. When it was initially time to go into the carrier for the trip, she was, of course, wise to what was about to happen. She made a dash for the high ground (ie. the taller cat-tree in the sitting room) from which I would have been able to pry her only with great difficulty. So I grabbed her as she was half-way up. She screamed her anger all the way to the carrier, yet she did not struggle. She was going to have her sharks’-teeth claws cut and could have disembowelled me with them, but probably didn’t even think of using them, never mind actually do it. Once in the carrier, Cammie cried now and then, but otherwise was wonderfully co-operative.

When she returned home, she had a good soft-food dinner and relaxed on the bedroom cat-tree by the window, watching the sunset’s glow. She was forgiving in her attitude toward me.

Considering all that she has gone through, and what she could do, Cammie's forbearance is remarkable. I know I’ve written about this behaviour before, but she gave me a bit of good news in an otherwise discouraging day, and she deserves credit for it. Thank you, my princess.

The Aftermath of Discovery

I would like to thank all of those who commented on Tucker’s new situation and who offered advice. I will be doing research about feline diabetes, and talking to the doctor about it. In fact, Tucker and I will be having a consultation with the veterinarian late on Wednesday, September 2nd. I imagine I will be doing more speaking than Tucker, who will come along principally as a target for my first practice shots with a needle. As Brian, from Brian’s Home, pointed out, I have given sub-cutaneous fluids using a needle; if I can do that, insulin with a needle will not be much more difficult. Certainly Tucker will offer a more substantial victim for my poking than little Tungsten did.

There is much that I want to inquire of the doctor, and I am making notes. The rescue-group to which I belong is also giving advice and help, which will prove valuable. In the meantime, the roly poly’s dental surgery, necessary for the cleaning that he very much needs, has been postponed. The doctor believes that Tucker is, except for the diabetes, healthy, and able to withstand an operation of that sort, but to be safe, the procedure will occur only after Tucker’s insulin amount is arranged and stabilised. The doctor told me that this could take a few months, but averages, in her experience, about four or five weeks.

I am most grateful for all of the assistance I am receiving in this matter. Tucker would be as well, if he could comprehend what is happening. Instead, he will thank everyone by scaring the crap out of them through pretending to be dead in this picture. His demise is very life-like, don’t you think?

Of Frying Pans and Fires

After my worries over the weekend with Josie, it was Tucker’s turn.

Yesterday, I took him to the veterinary hospital. He has had terrible breath for a while, and his gums appeared red to me. I was concerned that he might have a severe case of gingivitis. My fears were justified, unfortunately, and he will need a dental operation to clean them. At first glance, the doctor did not believe that any teeth will need to be extracted, though that opinion may change upon closer examination. The cost will be more than $500; $700, if teeth need to be removed. Tucker remains my most expensive cat.

That was not the worst news, however. The roly poly one has been wetting where he shouldn’t. This I attribute to stress over Noah’s presence. But Tucker has also been dripping urine here and there, usually after he uses the litter-boxes; he does use them, he simply goes elsewhere, too. (Such as on my duvet, when I was trying to put him in the carrier to go to the doctor - but that was fear, the poor fellow.) So, considering his history with urinary tracts, I asked the doctor to run a urinalysis on him, as well.

Despite wetting immediately before being put in the carrier, and even in the carrier, there was enough urine left in Tucker’s bladder to test, and the technicians began it before we left the hospital. As I was paying the bill, the veterinary came out and told me that my cat’s glucose levels looked very high, so poor Tucker had to be shaken out of the carrier again for a quick blood test. The normal numbers for glucose are three to six (three to six what, I don’t know); Tucker’s was 23.5. Tucker is diabetic.

I will be talking to the doctor at length next week about all that this entails. Tucker will need insulin for the rest of his life, of course, but we will have to determine the right dosage, which will probably mean a few rough weeks for the roly poly one. I will have to get used to sticking him with needles. I was growing accustomed to giving Tungsten sub-cutaneous fluids, so I suppose I can do this for Tucker. I must. He will depend on me even more than in the past.

I don’t know how much this will cost; it will depend on the dosage he ultimately receives. But I hope that between the treatment for the diabetes he has developed, and the dental work, he will feel much better than he must be feeling now. That sausage of a cat has been through much, and will have to go through more. But better health lies in his future, I hope, and we will be working toward that.

Anxious Day

Having pets, one is always wary of their health. This weekend, Josie gave me cause to worry. Saturday, she didn’t eat anything. My Chubs’s appetite is less than it was, and she is choosier regarding the flavours she consumes. But I can usually count on her to show at least an initial interest. She may then turn away after sniffing something, if it is not a variety to her liking.

Saturday morning, I woke to find several cats on the bed, helping me sleep in. Josie was one of them, which is not unusual. What was unusual was that she remained on the bed even after she knew that I was preparing the beasts’ soft-food breakfast. I brought her a dish of what was on the menu, but she was less than enthusiastic about it. She didn’t even smell it, which is a bad sign. I returned a few minutes later with some Fancy Feast ocean whitefish, which the Great White always enjoys - but not on this occasion. I knew something was amiss.

I generally do nothing in such cases at first. I wait and see if the cat comes around. Dinner brought the same story, as did snack-time four hours later. Josie spent the whole day lying in the same spot on the bed. I was concerned now. I didn’t want her to go for long without eating. Her weight notwithstanding, a cat cannot starve for more than a few days without incurring damage to her internal organs. We were a ways away from that time, but nonetheless, I was thinking of having to force-feed Josie, which I had never done. I would see what Sunday brought.

Fortunately, whatever my Chubs suffered on Saturday had passed by the next dawn. She had a good appetite on Sunday and consumed her normal amount of soft-food for breakfast. I watched with relief as she then waddled over to the hard-food bowl and ate there, too. I didn’t mind. Josie was back to her old self.

I suspect this was a matter of an upset stomach, perhaps a headache, or whatever minor ailment puts a cat off her food. Humans have such days; I’m sure cats do, as well. Even so, the moment one of mine acts unusually - too many trips to the litter-boxes, sitting down oddly, refusing to eat - I start worrying, and thinking of possible causes. I know this is better than ignoring what may be symptoms of something dangerous, but it can be exhausting. I went to bed Sunday night relieved but tired. And Josie lie down beside me, her stomach full. Thank goodness.

Time's Fun When You're Having Flies

Play-time at my house has been stale. I have fuzzy mice, plastic rings off milk jugs and Kick-a-roos; a laser-pointer and an old Neko Fly string-toy for group activities. Each evening, I like to spend some time playing with the beasts, but they have been apathetic about it, to tell the truth. I think it was the principal group-toy: the Neko Fly we had been given as a Christmas gift had been a furry, simulated mouse. It has been reduced to a strip of fuzzy leather, and only Noah has summoned any enthusiasm for it. It was time for new toys.

The town in which I live did not have any Neko Flies for sale, so I ordered three new toys on-line. They came within a day; I don’t know why I didn’t order them sooner. I bought a fake fox-fur creature, a fake dragonfly and a fake tarantula (though this toy has but six fake legs; that’s unimportant, as I suspect most of the legs will be pulled off soon anyway.) I brought out the dragonfly last night.

What a difference! Tucker couldn’t get enough of the new item. He chased it here and chased it there, leaping over the nylon tunnel repeatedly to get at it. (I made him do that; he can use the exercise.) The roly poly barged into other cats’ attempts to play and seemed intent on biting the dragonfly.

Renn enjoyed it, too. He jumped to catch it - his muscular legs can throw his lean body quite a ways up; I’m always afraid that he will hurt himself coming down again. He rolled on the floor trying to catch the dragonfly and - my favourite trick of his - he plunged into the nylon tunnel when he saw that his quarry was hiding in there.

Even Josie was active, hurrying after the dragonfly - as much as she can hurry - and stretching for it on the sitting room rug. We transferred some of her play-time to the bedroom, where she wrestled with the toy on the bed.

Only Cammie didn’t join us. This had nothing to do with the toy; the princess was in one of her moods. She was feeling better later on, when she came and sat on my lap and purred for ten minutes or so, but there was no playing. I will try her tonight.

You may have noticed an absence of Noah during this play-time. That’s because he is such an active boy - and the others still dislike him - that I must play with him separately from the others. But don’t worry; he gets his own time with me before he goes to bed each night. We play in the library downstairs, and it was too late and too dim for a proper picture of him running about, so I have to settle for one of the boy eating. But he did enjoy the new toy. He liked it more than the old, and raced after it constantly. He cannot get decent traction on the linoleum floor of the library, so he skids about, his feet flailing as he continually tries to turn circles after the elusive dragonfly. But catch it he did now and then, and did not want to let go of it. He ran so much, though, that he was panting and after fifteen minutes' exercise was starting to slow down. But he remained game until bed-time.

So play-time has been rejuvenated a bit. I will try the other string-toys when the dragonfly’s novelty palls. The old toy has been honourably retired but is being kept in reserve. Noah noticed it and likes it enough to knock down a box to get at it. It started a good tradition, with its flies and bugs and fur on a string. After all, to a cat, time’s fun when he’s having flies.

Following the Bad Example

A few years ago, Tucker decided to see what the fireplace was like. There was no fire in the grate at the time - even my roly poly knew not to investigate open flames - and the ashes from the previous winter’s use were cleared away. But once used, a fireplace is never again perfectly clean, so he became a very sooty cat, and needed as close to a bath as he’s ever likely to come.

This week, Noah determined to emulate his sausage-shaped roommate. I suppose he figured that if Tucker was his superior in the feline hierarchy at my house, Tucker knew best. Tucker does not. Even so, Noah imitated him and explored the fireplace. Having none of Tucker’s timidity, however, the new boy saw no problem with barging his way through the screen-barrier, even while I was watching and telling him to desist.

Unlike Tucker, Noah did not scurry out merely because I was showing my displeasure. I had to haul him away and cart him to the bathroom, where, thank goodness, only his feet needed washing. His predecessor in that predicament was smudged from nose to tail. It’s true that I may have missed some soot on Noah; his colouring would not show it as readily as the roly poly’s. But I smoothed him down with my hands and nothing came off.

Nonetheless, he left my tub a mess and was thoroughly annoyed at having to have his paws touched, something he doesn’t like. He was annoyed…

Now, my fireplace is blocked by cardboard, fronted by aluminum foil. I have no worries about my perma-cats trying to get in there, and during my absences, Noah is sequestered in the parlour. But he is a risk for mischief while I am present, and as was demonstrated, even being in the same room is no bar to him doing what he ought not. But such is life with a youth like Noah, and there are times, rare though they may be, when he is actually still, and peaceful. Briefly.

Confrontation

One of the interesting things I’ve noticed about Noah’s place in the household is that his relationship with Cammie is changing. Originally, he would follow the princess and, in so doing, annoy her tremendously. He still does that periodically, but now, Cammie just as often shadows the boy. Noah has decided that being followed by a ferocious Siamese cat isn’t as much fun as he may have thought it would be. I will find him sometimes cornered, squatting somewhere with his exit blocked by Cammie, similarly squatting, neither animal doing anything, just waiting for the other to make a move.

On the other hand, Noah still makes the situation worse - or at least keeps it as tense - by now and then aggravating Cammie’s already irritable nature. He will rush at her, just to stop abruptly. The princess will of course fly into a rage over this provocation, which is likely Noah’s intent. He’s a youth, now, about a year old, and likes to see what he can get away with.

The other day, I caught the two of them confronting each other from opposite ends of the nylon tunnel. Noah was threatening to zoom through it at Cammie, and the latter was ready to administer whatever punishment was necessary when it happened. Fortunately, as I was trying to relax with a book and a cup of tea at the time, nothing transpired, and this stand-off fizzled out.

Do you see Tucker looking on disinterestedly? It matters not to him who wins, so long as they leave him alone. A truly feline attitude...

Ferocity in Moderation

Each cat has its own unique personality, as any cat-owner knows. How different cats behave toward the same situation is interesting, and often amusing.

Josie is a good example. She is now my oldest cat, at twelve years of age, and the one I have had the longest, now that my Tungsten is gone. Josie is not a fighter. She did get into a very short brawl with Cammie once, but that was unprecedented. No, my Chubs is not a violent animal. This may be seen in regard to Noah.

Noah is my foster-cat. He is not yet a year old and is full of energy. He can be mischievous, and he sometimes likes provoking the perma-cats. This has, I think, something to do with the disparity in their ages. The youngest of my adopted beasts is Renn, and he is now eight. Tucker is ten, as is Cammie. These must seem like a bunch of stodgy old fogeys to someone like Noah. So he charges at them through the nylon tunnel, he jumps on them, he runs at them. Only Tucker does he leave alone because, surprisingly, the roly poly one takes the initiative and gives Noah a pummelling now and then.

When Noah comes too close to Renn, my big boy lets out a long, sustained groan, hardly a growl, but full of dissatisfaction and unmanifested menace. When the youth approaches Cammie, the princess lays back her ears, narrows her eyes and roars like a panther about to pounce. When Josie is upset with Noah, she gives a high-pitched, whiney growl that sounds a crotchety old woman complaining about neighbours.

No, the Great White does not convey ferocity in any convincing terms. When Cammie’s ire is aroused, I can hear it from one end of the house to the other. When Josie is angry, everything else must be quiet and still, or it goes unnoticed. I feel sorry for my Chubs; she is probably being as violent in her protests as possible, and no one is taking her seriously.

This is why I am glad she is an indoor cat in a safe environment - Noah’s depredations notwithstanding. She would not do well in the wide world, on her own. Her defences would be disregarded like a tidal wave ignores an umbrella, and her feeble anger brushed aside as if it didn’t exist. I take her protests into account when she makes them, though, for no one likes to be insignificant, and in all other things, the Great White looms large.

Josie is my pacifist, my not-so-little old lady, my beast with the wobbly belly, and it does me good to see her taking her ease in the sun.

Memory, Be My Friend

Memory is a funny thing. It is rather different than memories, plural. The former helps us recall the latter. It is not for nothing that Lord Tweedsmuir, one of our governors-general, better known as the author John Buchan, titled his memoirs Memory Hold-the-Door. The capacity to recollect actions, images, smells, sounds, feelings, is a great and powerful force, and serves emotion much more often, it seems, than it does reason.

Memory contorts time; it compresses and extends it, like what scientists theorise a black hole does. What was yesterday becomes last week, and what occurred a year ago happened just now.

I have been thinking of my late friend Tungsten quite a bit lately. It hasn’t been even five months since she died, yet in some instances, it feels as if she just turned the corner of the corridor and passed out of my sight. Other times, she seems to have been gone half my life.

I don’t think about her all the time. That is memory’s way; we live our lives and do what we do to get through our days. Sometimes those days are exciting and rich, sometimes they are boring and tiresome. But memory usually keeps us from dwelling on the past, whether it is happy or sad. Tungsten comes back to me therefore now and then, here and there.

I was making some toast last night, as is a habit, to keep my stomach from growling when I go to bed. Tungsten would see me preparing my snack and come over and join me. Latterly, she would be in her cat-bed, notice my activity, step down to the floor, stretch and walk over. She walked not hesitantly, as if hoping for a piece of toast; not hurriedly, as if she had to arrive before it was eaten, but matter-of-factly. “Oh, it’s toast-time, is it? Splendid. I am a bit peckish.” She would sit a few feet away from me and give a great meow, a yell, really. She could hurt your ears with the strength of her voice. Surprising, coming from one so minute. That would get my attention. Then she would speak the tiniest of cries, pitiful, suppliant. She didn’t fool me. She wasn’t begging. She was reminding. She would get her little bit of buttered toast. When she was healthy, or relatively so, she would then lie on my lap. In the months before her death, she would get down and stroll back to her bed. Either way, she had her treat.

That recollection came back strongly last night, but there have been others over the days. How Tungsten would sometimes prefer to crawl onto my shoulders instead of being held. She would lie there and push her head against my face; the only time she would give me head-bumps. I would boost her up, with my hand under her bum, rather than have her claws find a hold in my skin.

Then I think of the only times that Tungsten showed fear, which was when she had to go to the veterinary. She would press as close as she could against me, actually curving her little body around my abdomen as I stood at the examining table with her. Her faith that I could protect her against anything was deep, if ultimately misplaced.

When I go to bed at night, I recall Tungsten sleeping literally in my hand, curling herself up. If she thought I was moving my hand away from her, she would seize it in one of her paws and keep hold of it, even while she slept.

The orange one would follow me at times, into one room, then into another, and then a third. But her pace was usually so sedate that I would come out of the first room as she was still coming in. Then I would leave the second as she was entering that one. In each case, she would simply turn around, untroubled.

Lastly, a memory occasioned not by touch or sight or sound, but by smell: the scent of Tungsten’s fur. It was always very clean and smelled not of any shampoo, yet as though it was always freshly washed. I had remarked on that fact more than once to people during the tiny terror’s lifetime, and marvelled at how spit alone could keep a coat so clean. I hastened to assure people to whom I related this that I, myself, used soap and hot water.

So memory teases us with the presence of those who are absent. Usually, we give no permission for these images and sights, these noises and calls from our past; they come regardless. The door that memory opens and shuts rarely has a lock, and if it does, it is not we who keep the key. All we can do is hope that those who enter through the door come as friends.

Renn and the Ice Cube

Having given Noah some fun with an ice cube in the water-dish, I thought I should do the same for Renn. After all, my big boy is the scientist in my household, and I was sure he would enjoy studying the phenomenon of floating ice.

I was right. I slipped a cube into the metal dish in the sitting room while Renn was contemplating its contents. This added a new dimension to his study of water. I’m certain he had never experienced solid water before. It was like an unknown universe had opened before him.

Renn interacted with the ice cube in a different manner than had Noah the previous day. Renn studied the cube. He watched it float. He watched it move. He himself did not move much. He was not interested in biting the ice, or in playing with it. His motives were serious; they were scholarly. He wanted to learn, not to have fun. Periodically, he poked the cube, but his goal was not to eat it, or to pull it from the dish. He wanted to learn about its characteristics.

Alas, soon the ice disappeared, like the eclipse a solar astronomer wants to experience. There will be other ice cubes, and my big boy will acquire more knowledge. He doesn’t care for telling people about his discoveries; not for him the published works, the acclaim, the talk-show circuit. For Renn, learning is good in and of itself. Some day, he and I will have a long conversation about all that he has learned. Some day, we will have all the time we need for that. For now, however, I am happy to watch him study, and for him to keep the secrets of his discoveries.

The Ice Cube Cometh

As it turns out, Renn is not the only cat in my household to have a fascination with water. Noah (perhaps fittingly, given his name) also likes to mess about with the liquid, though, to be honest, it has to be water with a special attraction. In this case, it was a cube of ice.

The temperatures here have risen again, so I have been putting ice cubes in the water-dishes. The ice melts quite quickly and, while I was hoping that the addition, as long as it lasted, would provide some amusement for the cats, I didn’t think it would, really. Mine are a lethargic bunch. My big boy probably would have studied the phenomenon, if he had had the energy to leave the armchair where he was stretched out like Superman flying through a summer sky.

Instead, the new boy hurried over when he saw me slipping something into the dish. He was intrigued and puzzled. There was clearly something floating in the water, but he had no idea what it was. He tried fishing it out with his paw; he tried biting it. It proved elusive.

Noah is a smart cat. He peered at the ice through the glass of the bowl, and attempted to seize it from underneath. It was only when he decided that there was nothing for it but to tip the bowl over and empty the contents that I intervened.

The photographs are a bit blurry as he was in motion for most of the time. I think they convey the events, however. As you may perceive, the wonder of the world astonishes not just human children, but cat-children as well.

Roly Poly Guessing Game

My cats keep me guessing. I understand them well, I think, but there is much that is hidden from me yet. Sometimes what is concealed is rather esoteric; often, it is mundane, but still puzzling.

Tucker is a very sensitive animal, even for a cat, as I may have mentioned before. Periodically, when under stress, he relieves both this stress and himself outside the litter-boxes. This he does usually on the floor in the basement which, since I replaced the carpet down there with linoleum, is not such a big problem. Even so, I dislike having to clean it up and, more than that, I dislike him being under stress, and puddles on the library floor are signs of this.

Noah’s advent led to some instances of wayward wetting. They have grown fewer and farther between, though Tucker still does it from time to time. (The irony is that the roly poly is the one who bosses the new boy, not the other way around. Evidently, Tucker finds staying on top an emotional struggle.)

Last evening, Tucker ambled down to the basement, where the litter-boxes are kept. I thought little of it, except that he was down there an inordinate amount of time. I worry when my cats do that, as both Tucker and Renn did that when they were having urinary tract issues. (Tucker’s necessitated major surgery; Renn’s vanished without a trace.) So eventually I descended myself, to find Tucker hiding behind a chair. He does this when he thinks he’s in trouble. He is not adept at hiding, due to his size, but it gives me an indication of his emotions.

I naturally thought that he had wet where he shouldn’t have. When he does it, he is always embarrassed by it, certainly regretful. He knows he shouldn’t do it, but it’s a compulsion, so I can hardly punish him for it. Anyway, I searched, but could find nothing untoward. I made sure that the roly poly one did not feel that he was in trouble, and we climbed the stairs together.

Later, the scene repeated itself. I found my sausage of a cat at the bottom of the staircase as I was coming down. He looked guilty, but then he often does. It’s that big moon-face of his and the wide eyes. But again, I could see no evidence of wrong-doing, or even of bad aim. (He is, in fact, not only my most regular of cats in terms of bodily functions, but my most accurate.) I explained to Tucker that he was not in trouble; he purred, I puzzled.

Come ten o’clock, and I was putting Noah to bed. We played a bit, then I carried him to his bedroom (the downstairs shower-room) and bade him a good-night. As I was about to go upstairs, I saw a centipede scurry across the chequered linoleum floor. This provided a clue to the mystery. If Tucker had seen this multi-legged little fellow - and he could have, even in the dark basement - he would have been mesmerized by him for some time. He would not, as other cats may have, killed the creature. He is too timid for that; he instead would have watched it. He would have lost track of time until his human came down to investigate.

This may not be the solution to the problem. But Tucker was not doing what he ought not, and that was to my satisfaction. If he wants to be astonished by nature, that’s up to him, though I can’t see him studying it like Renn. I picture him watching, his eyes bigger than normal, his mouth open, his fuzzy face agog. After all, if I’m kept bewildered by my cats, they should be bewildered by something in their turn.

The Cats at Dawn

I rise early to go to work. It’s a necessity, not a wish. I do wake even on my days off earlier than I did when young, but getting up at 5.30 on weekday mornings is not something that I like doing. The cats wake with me, of course, and most of them seem much more eager to begin their day than I am.

Most look forward to their soft-food breakfast. They each have their spots - Tucker in the kitchen, Cammie on the first step to the basement, Josie in the sitting room; Renn rarely eats breakfast, and my foster-cat, Noah, eats in the parlour, with the door closed, to keep him from distracting, and being distracted by, the others.

But after breakfast, and a trip to the litter-box for one or two of them, they settle down for a nap. After all, they had to wake far too early for breakfast. Though it’s only the beginning of August, I’ve noticed that the day is not so light when I wake as it was. Similarly, when I write at the dining table in the evenings, I sometimes need to turn on the electric light. The summer, though still hot and strong during the middle of the day, is starting to show its age at its edges. There are, however, so the cats think, still some hours at this time for snoozing before they get on with the serious sleeping of the day.

Noah is active, even at this hour, as befits his childish energy. I provide him with a Trac-ball toy and some diversions in the way of fuzzy mice, but I suspect that he spends his day at the window, watching the world.

The perma-cats find their places before I go to work. Cammie is usually on a cushioned chair, if Renn is on the cat-tree by the bedroom window. If the princess can seize that high ground, my big boy rolls over on the siting room armchair. Josie is often on the bed, while Tucker wanders; he has a bite of hard-food, plays with a toy and watches me go.

I imagine that they all spend the morning and afternoon asleep, periodically waking to eat or attend to other bodily functions. Their day is quiet and boring. They may play, observe the wide world, investigate the house, or bother each other. I envy them.