Yes, it's that time of week again, dear friends and visitors. Caturday. The day when all good hoominz, accompanied (one hopes) by their Feline Friends and Overlords, attend to the business of weekend living. Which, at least in the opinion of teh Felines, should be limited to lots of lolling about, far from combs, brushes, and clippers, preferably in a warm spot of sun.
The residents at La Casa de Los Gatos are in various stages of napdom, preparing for the exhaustion of Sleep later. Y'know, they need to get their strength up for strenuous activities such as sleeping.
Geez, for the life of a cat! Eat, sleep, play, sleep, eat, sleep, play, sleep. We, the hoomin inhabitants, are planning to get useful in the garden, which is crossing from the stage of delightful spring bloom to dry brown high-fire-hazard dead material.
Bandicoot, senior Feline-in-Residence, has been unbelievably helpful in the garden. Chewing away at the occasional weed, annoying various species of birds, waving a fat, fur-laden white paw at the many different colours of butterflies (he doesn't want to kill them or hurt them, I think he's just trying to say "Ohai!"), gathering as many types and quantities of dried plant and insect material for stowage in his ample belly folds and fur (whence, of course, onto the hoominz' bed, the little pig), and generally poking the hoomin whenever any attempt at rest (by hoomin, not by himself) is made, with extremely large sharp claws. Pokes usually followed by a swipe at hoomin face-parts, or sinking said claws into thigh flesh.
What is it with these little fuckers, when they're not trying to dig your eyes out or lacerate you into full-scale bleeding, they're licking whatever body part is in convenient reach. I'm'a start renting the kid out for facial exfoliations to rich bitches. Probly have to do something about his fishy breath first, though.
They all got their flea meds this morning. The idea is to sneak up on them while they're sleeping, since otherwise, one is rewarded with the sound of galloping cats and the sight of a small cloud of dust and hair where cats had ere reposed. Needless to say, they're not too happy now, but perhaps a day in the sunny garden, interspersed with the usual huge feedings of kibble, will help.
Huge feedings, no kidding. There's only two of them that weigh less than 10 lb at this point. The two, heh, biggest contenders for King of teh CatHeap: Zingiber, at 23 lb., and Bandicoot at 19 (meaner than Zingiber, but only slightly: he snarls. ZB appears to have lost his voice, probably from howling the car to smithereens on the annual trip to the vet, and is too lazy to fight anyone, preferring the Weighty Squash as a superior method of disposing of opponents).
Queen of the CatHeap, Gojira Helen Wheels, has fled onto the hills above after complaining bitterly about her self-perceived lack of need for flea meds. Fortunately, her claws are tiny, transparent things, hardly capable of a penetrating scratch. And her teeth are like rice grains. UNfortunately, she has a burrowing habit: she burrows beneath the bedclothes, finds the nearest available body part (usually a bum) and fixes her teeth in it with vigor. No sleep for teh hoominz tonight. Bums will be bitten in revenge.
Madu, a typical representative of teh Ginger Cat species (sweet and amiable, but utterly brainless), actually came inside during the proceedings and since he is quite easily caught (not having the wit to wander or, in the interest of self-preservation, flee), was swiftly doused. As a result of which, he has leapt off the bedroom balcony to sulk in the garden below. We may rename him Wamba, son of Witless, in honour of Ivanhoe, a book much favoured by the siblings of teh hoomin, as well as by self. Although unfitted for the post of jester by inability to vocalize in hoomin, the fellow talks to himself constantly, even in his sleep, with variations of pitch and timbre, swooping high and rumbling low. It's like falling asleep in a movie theatre, having the Idiot Boy next to one's ear of nights. OTOH, I suppose we should be grateful he doesn't snore like his rather loud uncles.
The climbing rose is still blooming, way too late in the season. Its normal bloom season is late March through mid-May; the purple wisteria is putting forth a last few late buds; the bougainvillea is a magnificent carpet of magenta soaring as high as 18 feet in some places. Sore knee or no, we must tend to it all, preferably with clippers. Also blooming: white oleander, in two places; Santa Cruz hibiscus, a lovely purple; South African native Crocosmia, a very invasive and well adapted pest with lovely wands of orange-yellow flowers; Dietes vegeta, the kaffir lily, or rain lily, white flowers with purple markings that look surprisingly like an iris; Tibouchina, with its fist-sized purple flowers; a fiery red-and-orange lantana; Buddleias in several shades of purple; California poppies (not flowering very well this year; it's been too cool and foggy); and scabiosa in white, pink, red, burgundy, and purple. Also, a significant quantity of oenothera, pink-flowered and yellow; lavender, fragrant and much-loved by bees; Nigella damascena, with its papery straw-colored seed-heads like large balloons; Gloriosa daisies, bright yellow with dark brown centres; a yellow cosmos; the occasional, mostly hidden dianthus; a few hardy flax plants, blue and red; plenty of dill, dammit; and the echium is trying to push through a few late-blooming heads, all purple and blue, for the enjoyment of the bees.
A lovely day will be had by all. And that includes you. Enjoy teh Caturday! Stumble It!