When it comes to playing, a cat not only thinks that every item is a potential toy, but every item is a potential playground. I’ve seen Brazil, Valkyrie, even Imogen, burrow under the small set of stairs by the sitting room couch. And of course if they do it, then the Mixer isn’t going to disdain it. As hefty as he is, Moxy can disappear under the steps - even if he chooses at times not to vanish all together…
There was consternation in the Cosy Cabin last night. Snack-time for the beasts has been at seven o’clock for about a decade. (It once was a smaller meal than dinner or breakfast; hence the term ‘snack’. It has since become little different than the others.) I decided to alter that.
One of the reasons is to find time for more writing. One wouldn’t think that taking care of eight cats, working full-time, having to scoop litter-boxes at least thrice a day, keeping the floors and walls clean of debris, and working with the rescue-group, would take up much of one’s time. Yet it does. And I have recently found that opportunities to do anything that isn’t actual work are limited. One of the problems is interruptions. After eating my own dinner, washing dishes, answering rescue-group correspondence and the general round of post-prandial cleaning, I have had about half an hour to myself before snack-time. When one wants to concentrate on writing, just beginning where one left off the previous day takes some minutes; it’s not like flipping a switch to the ‘on’ position. In other words, the amount of time available doesn’t make an effort worthwhile. Do you remember when you were a child and it took fifteen minutes for mum to dress you in all the warm clothes she thought necessary for half an hour’s play in the snow? Yeah, like that.
After snack-time (and its attendant cleaning, packing up and box-scooping), I have perhaps another half-hour for myself. This is frequently rendered pointless for the same reasons as the earlier thirty minute period.
I decided, therefore, to move snack-time back by an hour. This gives me, theoretically, a longer period, undivided by cat-related business, to do as I wish. Then, instead of another uselessly small opportunity afterward, I go straight into showering and preparing everything for the next day’s morning.
A later snack-time also allows me to eliminate the ‘little bit’ that I was giving to Brazil at about nine o’clock. That seems unfair to him but, because the other cats were seeing that I was offering him a morsel at that time, they were demanding their own. It felt unjust to exclude others who wanted something, and thus, it was threatening to become a fourth meal-time, with all its consequent work. Food served an hour later keeps everyone from feeling peckish longer.
This brings me back to the first sentence of this entry. Though it may be alleged that cats cannot actually read a clock (analogue or digital), they can certainly tell time, and at seven o’clock, the beasts began acting up, talking, moving about and swirling about my legs. These distractions reduced the efficiency of the extra time available for writing, but did not destroy it. The distractions will also diminish over the next week, as the inmates become accustomed to the later snack-time. But they were displeased at what was perceived to be my tardiness last night. While telling time is within their abilities, understanding actual schedules is beyond the endurance of their patience.
I expect a few more days of consternation before the new norms are accepted.
Imogen and Valkyrie play sometimes, but only when Imogen wants. She will exchange whaps with the younger cat and rush at her; that’s all good fun. But when Valk pursues Imo, it’s a different story. Then the youngster is an annoyance, and why can’t she act her age and leave her elders alone?
Hey, human, it’s me, Valkyrie. Are you in there? What movie are you watchin’? Is it about treats? I like treats. I’ll open the door. I think I can almost reach the knob...
I am told that sometimes a cat will chew on something that is giving her nutrition that she is missing. Today, Valkyrie decided that she needs the dirty plastic taste and old-metal tang that only a door-stop could provide.
Cutting cats’ claws isn’t usually an ordeal, though it often depends on the cat, and sometimes it depends on the audience.
I tried to have some privacy to cut Indigo’s claws. She didn’t like the process and started complaining. Apparently Moxy heard this and came into the room, making his characteristic diminuendoes. This attracted Sable, who trotted up to the Mixer giving voice to her own hooting sounds. Valkyrie hurried in from somewhere; she dislikes Indie and began wailing at her. All of this caused Indigo further stress, and she cried and growled even more. I managed to cut all of her claws, but it was like sunset in the jungle, with every animal having his say before bedtime.
Next time, I’ll just close the door.
It’s claw-trimming time again at the Cosy Cabin. I am fortunate in that I am able to cut the claws of seven of the eight cats living with me (Sable being the exception). There is resistance - squirming, fidgeting, twisting - but nothing serious; certainly no cat enjoys it. But I can accomplish the task.
First up was Millie. I had to pause between cutting the claws of the different paws, as it was too much for her patience. She became rather growly after each paw was finished. In fact, when I completed the first paw, she walked away in a huff, then turned, came back and slapped my hand.
Maybe they’ll appreciate me more when they move out, get jobs and places of their own…
