If only there were a picture

It is a good thing the crazy white cat (CWC) keeps up her end of the bargain, because living with her is always an adventure. There was the morning I woke to find her playing with something on the floor. Eventually, between stumbles to the coffee maker, I realized the sound and heft were not like those of her official, sanctioned toys. I looked down and yes, it was a mouse head. Nothing left but the head. I don't think I need to describe what happened next. Suffice it to say Jack did not wake naturally. 

Most of the CWC stories center around her talent for opening the sliding glass door whenever she has tired of mingling with the masses. She simply hooks a claw into the wood frame and says 'Open Sesameow.'

During calving season, Jack often gets up in the middle of the night to check the heifers. In between he naps in the recliner. One night last week he woke up to find CWC and her brothers and sisters (who live in the barn) cavorting about the kitchen. She was having a sleepover!

When inclined, she is a better guard dog than the actual canines in our house. When we get home, she
comes running and is there to greet us on the stairs, often making it long before the dogs do (if they make the effort at all). The other day Jack got home, opened the door and there she was, curled up on the stairs. There was one notable exception, however. It was not a Corgi, nor a Lab beside her. Instead, a fluffy Sussex hen looked up, stretched and slowly walked out the door behind my astonished husband. A chicken! IN the house!

Green Acres is the life for me?

The biggest gainer

When we got back from traveling over the holidays our lithe, agile little barn kitten had sprouted a Jabba the Hut gut. She probably gained at least a pound and looked like she'd swallowed a softball.

Apparently while we were off on vacation she did little else but eat. Hard to blame her, really. For 10 days she was alone with Jack-the-cat who hates her with a visible cloud of vehemence and her food bowl.

Aw. Food is love. Even for kitties.

Maybe because she started life as a barn cat she has food security issues. As in, if she can even glimpse the bottom of her bowl she begins a begging frenzy. Meowing, Twirling around your feet. Leaping on to wherever you planned to sit to twirl and meow in your way.

She does this even when there is a full cup of food in the bowl. If it is all around the edges, though, and not over the middle, the world is ending.

Jack's suggestion?

"Let's take a picture of her food and paste it to the bottom of her bowl."

Three blind mice

 

Let me introduce you to killer. No, that’s not her real name. But she was hired to be our Mus musuculus assassin.

But first, some backstory. Mater loves to play but being blind, isn’t so great a playing fetch. So Mater’s no. 1 fan found him a ball that made lots of noise so Mater could (theoretically) find it. When in motion, the ball laughs and screeches taunts at you. He loved it. We, however, weren’t so sad when it went missing.

Fast forward a bit. Jack has had surgery and must sleep in the recliner in the living room. Mater, as always, sleeps on the love seat and Sluggo in the wing chair (can you say spoiled dogs?). The three of them were sound asleep when suddenly there arose such a racket (sorry, I couldn’t resist). The laughing and taunting was coming from under the couch.

How? Doesn’t it have to be moving? Wasn’t Mater asleep?
Yes.

The mice were playing with it.

Now, we had tried to be neighborly with the critters, but things were getting out of control. Tiny black pellets were showing up in very inopportune places and tiny skittering parties could be heard over the sound of Two and A Half Men. But this? This was the last straw.

In came killer, one of the barn kittens. Poof! No more pellets and uninterrupted television. I am extremely grateful for this. Except of course when I have to witness the wrath of Ghengis Kat.

to be continued …

By the power vested in them

You will not leave!

Playing footsie

 

You can certainly tell who rules our roost.

He's checking his list

Jack has a collection of cowboy Santas. They are in various poses so they can be identified thus. One rides a palomino horse mid-jump with his arm up in the air (very Wyoming). Another simply plods along like Mary on her donkey (come to think of it...), and one holds a rope about to throw a loop. He hasn't kept many things along his travels, but these always find their way home. This year, they got their own little windowsill tableau complete with lighting and ribbon.



I have a penchant for vintage type things (see: my husband) and a few years ago while trolling a consignment store I found the coolest old stuffed Santa.



Jack didn't agree.

"What was that movie where they had they evil little doll that killed people?"
"Chuckie?"
"Yeah - Chuckie! That's Chuckie's Christmas! Get that thing out of here."

Well, maybe he IS like Chuckie, since he keeps turning up somehow.

My Santa (I lovingly refer to him as "creepy Santa") doesn't stand up well on his own, to I stuck him in a nice supportive corner.

Enter CWC (the feline version, not the one on my paycheck).

By some Christmas miracle, the cat has not bothered the tree or ornaments much at all. We took precautions; we created a restricted zone on the bottom branches for sturdy or squishy ornaments. The top half, tied to the wall, is very shiny. It has all the glass and ceramics. We figured it would stand up to whatever she could throw at it (her body, Sluggo, you know, whatever she could), but she seemed only to appreciate it as a nice place to hide beneath and tease Mater.

Every morning this week, however, I woke up to this:



Poor Santa don't get no respect.
Jack was fine with this, of course.
"Leave him there," was his preference.

But this morning, his beloveds were violated. The regal cowboy Santa had been unceremoniously displaced from his position of honor. Unbroken, but definitely disgraced.

"Listen, cat," Jack addressed Princess Kitty under the tree. "There are Santa's you can mess with and Santa's you can't. Get it straight."