That's right, folks, it's that time of week again. Enough with the politics, it's the weekend and despite more medical and legal appointments in the coming week, we're determined to have a good time at La Casa de Los Gatos. Of course, the majority of the inhabitants define "a good time" as "Continuous Napping Interrupted by Brief Sorties Upon Teh Kibble or Teh Litterbox," but hey. There's a daisy chain of three snoring cats (I know. Who ever thought cats snored? But they do. Tiny little wheezes. Gzzzz-blort.) at the foot of the bed, and the Bandicoot is spooning Gustav at my elbow upon what used to be Gojira's Pillow.
I plan to make them watch a good movie tonight. They assure me that they can watch with their eyes shut. Apparently, their ears are alternate viewing stations.
It's a grim, grimy, gray day here up on the hill and the fog is enveloping the old homestead. A thick cloud of fog, and one can hardly see the hills beyond, where a new raptor has made a nest high in a pine. I want to put out food for the squirrels, but my neighbour's not too thrilled with the idea, mainly because they do damage to her edible garden. Ah, well-a-day, what looks had I, both from old and young!
Perhaps today, I'll make soup! Kitties have very sharp hearing, and one way to get those lazy fuckers out of bed is to vacuum (Flee! Flee! or FLEA, as the case may be). The other is to make soup, and turn on the ventilator fan for the stove. Out they'll go, as quick as can be, and won't return till The Damned Thing has been shut off.
I ought to be a better human. I ought not to cast them out in the cold and the damp. Goodness knows, Bandicoot has a cold (again! He's allergic to his litter!), and Gustav has feline herpes (it causes tearing, which can then lead to bacterial infection). And Gojira, for a purported Russian Blue, is terribly allergic to cold and wet weather. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. It's more a case of being the only girl cat in a rambunctious household full of boy cats, who are very dirty and grubby, as a rule. She has Standards to Uphold. Which require constant licking, cleaning, and grooming. And she's not about to get her fine, princessly pink tongue all filthy from grooming mud out of her precious coat.
But there you are. I am not a better human, just an injured, handicapped human who wants to get the house clean (no mean feat when you can't get up and down steps easily). And I want them, and all those charming little balls of cat fur, OUT of the house. At least until I'm done cleaning, when they'll just rush in with muddy feet, covered from head to foot with pine needles, bugs, plant detritus, the occasional redwood cone, mud, bog, stench, and loose sand, and make me new Knittin' Kittens all over again. Cats are clean, someone said. I'd like to see that twit come visit with this lot.
We once had to cut dessicated baby slugs out of Bandicoot's ample bellyful of white dreadlocks. He likes to lie in the mud and lure the poor little things in, doubtless with promises of moist warmth. Then he promptly transfers himself to a warmer drier surface and the poor little slugs, wrapped around with furry white tendrils, asphyxiate, or suffocate, or dessicate, or whatever it is slugs do, and it's time for gloves, scissors, towels, and restraints.
Have I mentioned he doesn't like having his fur trimmed? Have I mentioned he weighs nearly 20 lb? Have I mentioned that he's as strong as an ox? Or stronger than me, anyway. And he kicks like a mule. And we can't trim his nails because he depends on them to climb trees and deface the redwood deck, two of the great joys of his life. Also to gouge from my body quantities of skin, hair, and subcutaneous cells, leaving bleeding tracks in his wake.
Nevertheless, soup it is. One with chicken and chorizo and potatoes; one Alubias de Tolosa, even though I don't really have the right kind of beans (hey, I'm sorry, I'm so not paying $5/lb for beans, unless they're gold-plated). Simmering, home-made stock, turnips, rutabagas, parsnips, peppers, celery, carrots, onions, garlic, and here and there a little pinch of herbs and spices and hot chilli peppers to warm the innards. Depression food. Coldweather food. Bon appetit, all, and a wonderful weekend.
And here, for your enjoyment, a little kitteh who can tell you all about teh food.
Om, nom, nom, nom, nom. Stumble It!