The Engineer goes for a walk after work, and has been collecting quite an album of local cats on his phone. One of them gave him a bit of a turn.
We know Torvald came to this house, ahem, “intact.” But he insists he knows nothing about it.
We replaced the teetery cat tree from Freecycle — with some regret, but alarm and concern for the way it had begun to rock from the base forced our hands. There is a marvelous online cat furniture store, run I think by people who are ethnically Eastern European or possibly Turkish — a language-gifted client of mine once took a look at their quaint prose and couldn’t decide. I have one of their productions in the dining room, which is supposed to keep cats from jumping up on the table. It’s been there ten years and looks brand new, so we ordered a five-foot three-level special in the same line. Miss Nickel needs a place to be On High.
The cliffhanger in these cases, so to speak, is always — will they like it? Will we have to rub catnip on it?
We got it halfway to its intended location, set it down in the master (sort of) bedroom (sort of). Mr Ferguson sharpened his claws on the sisal post. Miss Nickel Catmium-Ferguson leapt pretty much over him and plonked her fat little can into the top tray.
The Engineer declaimed.
“I am in my tower!
My tower of power!
Where I can sit and glower!
And look sour!”
Which is sort of what she does, when you think of it. She wouldn’t even let me take a picture. Hasn’t yet.