Catnip and Catnaps

The hairless tom can verbal or muscle the other subject into a good arrangement for cuddling but for myself, I take what I can get.

If she sits on the tall chair, her legs slant and eventually once relaxed, I slide off. Waking into mid-descent scramble is not ideal obviously. I can eyeball her and see if she will automatically shift herself into a good laptop position or else wedge an arm to prevent me from falling off the sharp slope of pitch.

When she sits cross-legged, I can nest in more but her muscles are harder and boney. It’s hard to get a good position that evenly distributes my weight and ensures good contact with her for symbiotic exchange.

If she sits straightlegged on the couch with her feet due south, I can sit on her softer arrangement of legs and watch for incoming pigeons. This is optimal but even with optimal there is a certain amount of turning around and getting the neck so that it doesn’t crimp a nerve, on me I mean. I call this my lap dance and I feel it sets the mood for further unity achieved through the stroke-purr exchange.

This exchange seems exceptionally useful these days as she seems particularly peaked. An hour or two of my special homeopathic deep penetration purr, and we both symbiotically gain something extra in our day. Beyond company, grooming and massage myself, I can shunt less energy to core heating while sitting on the reflective heating surface that she is.

The study subjects are sprawled out under their covers between dreams. They look like such cute pets like this with only their heads showing, slack jaws leaving their tongues out to dry or drool. Their snores if you turn your ears just right can almost be imagined as a purr.

I let myself down carefully from my toiletry run and inpection round. My hips are aching. It comes and goes. I am an xenobiologist, not physician but I’d hazard to say that it’s a touch of arthritis and a rough massage of fatigue from incisors to the last vertibrae of my tail. Maybe I should cut back on my shadow catithenics for a couple days. The body is wonderous that it goes at all at my age.

Smell of dust being settled by rain that is so fine it is almost vapour, smell of sawdust glues and distant welding coming from the south east, from the south west edge of breeze, crushed grasses, burning tobacco, drying wet dog. The sun soaks into my fur like a deep toothed comb. I scan for birds. The clouds don’t release any but I have all the time in the world to watch.

My colleague turns circles chasing her tail with grunts. I purr indulgently, prop the side of my chin on edge of the blanket, watch her watch it, see her study the tip twitching, her diving at her stomach, missing. She feigns nonchalence, turning her back to it then spinning quickly to catch it, running clawing circles left then falling over herself, then running around to the right.

It’s good to see her returning to her old self. Our confinement and her last furrough was tough on her system. She seems to finally be coming back out of her shell. It’s a wonder what regularity can do for mental health.

I love to groom. I am fastidiously clean, need a toiletry area that is immaculate and scent-free. Heavy perfumes distress me more than loud noises, vacuum cleaner excepted. The hairless tom loves that machine. He runs it all over the place!

It may then come as a surprise to you that I love messes. Ok, the title of the post may ahve been a dead giveaway but still, does it leave you incredulous that I, a cat, fantasize about disorder? *Purring Sigh* — rumpled sheets to nest in, satchels left on sun warmed window ledges to rest on, chairs pulled away from tables so I can jump up with room to spare, butter slices dropped on the floor, a basket of warm laundry to crawl into as the missus is away distracted by the phone, a pantry door left ajar for me to investigate far past the package of flour.

If course it would be too much to hope to get all of those at one time. Still, just as they dream of a hairless breathing environment, I dream of sumptious littering of fuzzy dry blankets to nap on, inhaling old cheddar heavenly mess.

Sweet dreams all!

Did you know the Blue fins used to be 136 kg at middle age when eaten? That’s more than a whole feral neighbourhood can easily take on! I’m becoming something of a fish afficiando from reading the Marine and Coastal Information System records

My theory is that the tuna would not be in such a state of overfishing if the hairless talls would give a monopoly of the net’s yield to us, and eat something else themselves. They can have the citrus and chocolate and broccoli for instance. That would be enough for them to get the variety in diert they need.

As far as Tuna, hand it over…

I mesmerize the hairless tom with my eyes until he “spontaneously thought of” serving me tuna. He even brought the glorious word to tongue. Now he’s looking in the tuna cupboard. I hear the rattle of drawer, can opener…

Aha! Victory!

Noooo! The other vetoed the idea. Ah, victory snatched

hairball! I can’t focus on both of them at once; my psychic beams aren’t configured for that.
She wants to go out. Out? Out? without giving me tuna first? What could possibly be more important than that?

Mror help us. Paw covers on and metal clicks of lock slid in. They’re gone Amigo. My colleague wasn’t really into the moment anyway. She gives up so easily.

It’s a setback for me. Still, I feel my mind control is softening their resolve, conditioning them, long term. In each small success I try to reinforce the positivity of the notion with lavish affection as close to the time of delivery as possible to associate the rubs with the tuna.

Is it working? These hairless talls can be a slow bunch, but, once in a while, the simians catch the mouse in a single pounce.

More often they flub it though. Like just now.

Sometimes I wonder if the collective isn’t right? When they do “get it”, perhaps it *is* just the law of odds, beating their own best odds as with their insightful, or beginner’s luck, leap. Round-bellied and downy as kittens, half blind, they just aren’t developed enough for communicating mind-to-mind.

Still, as felinpomorphic as it is, I lean towards giving more credence to their brain being able to function more than we generally give them credit for. The barrier is a matter of language, in a way. It’s software compatibility, not discrete function on either of our sides.

I argue, I did just today, with my colleague, “isn’t there some respect for potenatial owed those who can can a baby blue tuna? Most blue fins are nearly three times my weight at 25 kg, *and* in ocean water. Not really a boat creature myself, I find this incredible.”

She demurred knowing how I do go on about some of these things and went to check out if the kibble was refilled. No one is here. How could it be refilled? She’s compulsive like that. Her tray trips go on a cycle separate from logic.

*sigh* I’m wrapping myself in my tail and going back to sleep.

The geese are gathering in cyrillic honks nudging each other to the next horizon.

The one small cloud I can see makes the sky far wider than overcast yesterday’s small world.

The frost has touched the vine leaving it freckled and dawn comes later and later.

The sunrise’s breath is invisible among the splayed whiskers of daybreak.

The sun is mousing, crouched quiet and low in the grass.

I am not unmoved; I change my sunning spots according to where and when the sun now lands.

The chairs, freshly dehaired, are ready again for my rounds of visitations. Soon it will be time to steo over the hairless talls and see if I can prod them away to this freshly killed day, the preyed-on, prayerful dawn waiting to be toyed with.

What’s this? I had been perfectly comfortable in my mousing dream, thank you.

And I am awoken with strokes for…?

Oh, I see, another “uplifting experience” coming my way without my explicit prior consent as I am airlifted from one lap to another.

My legs spread-eagle and my tail tip rotors, ears flattened in a most unflattering but hopefully communicative way…

no? hello…? ah, exuuuse me. nope, not wanting this thank you…

let go before my claws go on auto!

whoa… I squirm and wriggle and through a few parting bunny kicks free my legs and hips, make my scampering escape with as much dignity as I can muster.

I stand back under one of the less comfortable glass flat beds and look at them askance to see if they register any comprehension of my no. Surely I don’t need to vocalize.

My colleague, also in a no huggie sort of mood, has since made like a paratrouper across clear-cut terrain, proactively running crouched low for the nearest closet.

[psychically moblogged]