Spring has arrived and we finally have the occasion to try out the new super wind turbine fan in the living room. So far I’ve noted these charming characteristics: it sounds a bit like a small plane prepping to roll down the runway, after about 45 minutes it makes intermittent *tzzzt* noises, and lastly – but most importantly – it’s churning up little tumbleweeds of Grayson fur that may have been undiscovered until we moved.
My boys are growing up. Their personalities are finally developed and ever present, for better or for worse.
When Grayson was a kitten we thought we’d go crazy. Windsprints over our heads at 2am, etc. When Monty arrived we realized we’d had it “good” with Baby Gray. Man oh man he was tireless. It probably didn’t help that we brought him home when we were packing up the transient apartment to move to the condo. No no, Monty never knew The Big House with it’s retahdid amount of square footage and it’s carpeted speedway where a cat could really get traction.
Some months later, Grayson has mellowed. He no longer needs to eat his entire breakfast or dinner in one sitting. He’s taken to sleeping on top of the fridge or the back of the couch most nights, coming to the bedroom only in the predawn and an hour before the alarm hours to make needle laden biscuits on my neck and drool on me.
Monty on the other hand, is a passive, laid back hippie cat. He sleeps between The Mc and I as a furry, living, mewing “cockblock”, and stays on the edge of the bed claiming innocence (but is clearly an accessory) to Grayson as he disrupts my slumbers.
With the whirring of the fan and it’s inevitable tumbleweeds of fur comes a new adventure for both boys: the flipping and playing of pillow tags (presumably not removed in accordance with the law) in the wind. They’re fascinated and frightened, and downright delightful reality TV in my very own loft.
I never thought I’d care for cats the way I do for my loyal, sometimessnugglysometimesaloof boys…but I do.
They are my babies, my furry little mewing wish they’d learn to shit in the toilet or at least wipe their feet babies.
Taking a class on a Tuesday night is not a good idea.
The photography class I’m taking is from 6p-8p, which means busting out of work, making a bee-line to pick Beth up, getting to class, listening to my stomach growl starting at 7, and whispering to said partner in crime “I’m famished”. Dinner after class to rehash what we’ve learned that night and talk about plans for practicing new said skills. Home around 10/10:30 for a shower, a little computing and sleep around 11:30.
Bad, bad, BAD idea.
It’s a bad idea because it impacts my schedule for the rest of the week, trying to jam friends in here and there and sideways, and it’s a horrible idea because there’s no way I’ll catch up on sleep between Tuesday and Saturday. It’s a wretched idea because I’m a 9pm bedtime kinda girl.
That had less to do with the point of my story and more to do with me being SO FREAKING TIRED for the last four weeks and being frustrated that so many other parts of my life are suffering because of it. OTOH, I love the class, get to spend time with B and am distracted enough/have no energy to devote to worrying about selling The Big House.
So last night after Greek yum yums with B & her oily bohunk, a drive home in crooked rain and a quick scalding shower, I fell into bed. No puter, no reading, no knitting. Grayson hopped in when he saw me spoon The Supremely Unconscious Mc, promptly inserting himself between us.
Everything else went as it normally does – Little Dude started “making biscuits” on my neck at 4am, so I flopped my legs over the side of the bed, scooped him up, walked to the hall, put him down next to his sister and closed the door…sleepwalking back to bed.
At 6:30 (late) I woke up to more of his kneading and clanging of The Mc unpacking the dishwasher. My coffee hadn’t been delivered so I stumbled downstairs to a somewhat amusing “Hi, I’m The Mc…have we met?” theatrical performance. When that was over I asked “why are both bedroom doors open?”
We have French doors on the bedroom, the right side of which is usually closed and held in place by a D shaped sliding lock at the top of the door. When I got up, they were both open.
“The cats broke in” he says. “I heard Amber doing her usual scratching, and the next thing I knew both doors were open and Grayson was on my head. You don’t remember that?”
That Amber…she’s a beast. And this? Possibly the crappiest story of all time.
I’m not sure how or why, but Grayson has an uncanny knack for jumping up on the bed in the morning and landing directly on The Mc’s groin.
The Mc came to me with a stern look on his face.
“Promise you won’t be mad” he said. That’s never a good start.
“Promise no matter what I tell you, you’re not going to get upset and take it out on anyone.”
I stared at him.
“Grayson was on my chair?”
A chair I’m entirely too protective of in part because the fabric is something that resembles chenille and thought of the combo of chenille and cat claws upsets me. Still, he gets on the chair when we’re asleep, I know he does because the pillows or moved or dented. I’ve accepted it.
He shakes his head.
“Your giraffe. His ear is broken.”
Jerry – the giraffe – was purchased in Jamaica for $60. He’s about 4′ tall and was carved out of a single piece of wood. My friend Sarah who lives in Colorado but is currently deployed in Iraq (again) helped me with the price negotiation using skills she learned over seas. He holds special meaning.
“It’s just a piece of wood, we can have him repaired.”
On the way home from that trip, I tried to carry him on. Someone else had a guitar and he was really about the same size, so Jerry should be G2G I figured. They made me check him at the last minute and his leg was broken when I got him home and unwrapped him, which resulted in a visit to a furniture repair store (he’s wood!) and an expenditure of nearly double what he cost originally. We can rebuild him, make him faster, stronger…
“You’re taking this too well.” he says and starts backing away from me.
Last night I took pictures of the crime scene, the suspect and the witness. I also took pictures of The Mc and the interrogation, but they weren’t too flattering so I’ll leave them unpublished.
So yeah, it’s just stuff. It’s stuff I love and it’s stuff with emotional value, but it’s just stuff. Grayson? He’s a cuddle buggy vomit eating back scratching 4 am meowing face kneading mask and goatee wearing clumsy crazy little love machine.
I can forgive him.