I have resigned myself to having Two Pairs Of Cats. Mr. Ferguson and the redoubtable Nickel Catmium are now the “seniors,” being all of six, and they live upstairs in my private rooms for most of the day and come down for a turn on the first floor in the late afternoon and evening. The juniors, Agatha and Torvald, spend the night in the laundry room with a palatial cat tree boasting a ground level window view; a director’s chair full of fleece blankie; rugs, toy mice and all their necessities, but get their first floor turn from breakfast to tea-time, greeting clients and thundering up and down the cellar stairs.
Everyone wants to pick up Torvald, who is big, chunky and fluffy, not to mention inestimably pleased with himself and shamelessly flirtatious.
A gentleman who recently began coming for biweekly wring-outs of his shoulder girdle asked if I would like a cat-tree that his cat had spurned, nay sprayed upon and never approached again. It took a little elbow grease with the bottle of Dumb Cat and an afternoon of autumn sun, but installed upon the porch, the new tree became the place to hang.
I think I’m getting old and dotty: I shot those pictures a few seconds apart, discovered that I could toggle between them for the illusion that I had created a .gif or flipbook sequence, and spent the next five minutes doing just that.
Fergie, meanwhile, has been sniffling again — neither of us like the ragweed at this time of year — and I was so concerned lest he stop eating (cats won’t eat what they can’t smell) that I gave him carte blanche to snaffle up whatever he could smell. He picked the dish of Romano left over from last weekend’s linguine al vino bianco, a quick dinner involving arugula and a reduced wine sauce.
I know I give him a pass on this crap because I feel guilty about the disgruntlement he feels at having to share the house with two whippersnappers, and I wish they would all just get over it, but I can’t screw up the nerve to referee the screeching collision that happens every time they come face to face. It’s easier just to let them all get away with murder, or at least with walking around the dinner table. It’s not like I entertain. Humans, anyway.