Nance, who turns 53 today! Doesn’t look a day over 48, does she?
(I KID. She’s actually turning THE BIG 4-0.)
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This morning after I was showered and dressed, I headed down the stairs. I could hear blinds clattering in either the dining room or living room. Mister Boogers smacks at the blinds when he is displeased about any random thing.
“Mister BOOGERS!” I yelled, as I stepped into the foyer. “Cut it OUT!” My eye was caught by something nasty-looking on the wall by the front door. At first I thought it was a dead bug that someone had killed and left there, but then I took a closer look and decided it must be from a cat barfing up some grass he or she had eaten outside. Our cats adore taking turns going outside, eating a ton of grass, and then coming inside to barf it up in a nasty rug-staining puddle.
“How the fuck did it get so high?” I wondered. Because this little bit of black-green nastiness was at eye level. I theorized that at the end of his or her barf cycle, the cat had shaken his head and sent the grass-barf flying. I began looking on the floor for the rest of the barf pile.
Mister Boogers rattled the blinds some more.
“Mister BOOGERS!” I bellowed. “STOP! IT! NOW!”
More blind-rattling. And then I heard a fluttering noise. And then I understood. I walked into the dining room to see Mister Boogers, crouched on the floor, his eyes wide and dark. On the other side of the room, Spot was doing the same.
Against the window fluttered a HUGE grackle. He could see the outdoors, he could SMELL the outdoors – he just couldn’t GET to the outdoors, and it was driving him nuts.
“SPUD!” I yelled up the stairs. “Bring down your hamper!”
Did I mention that this was a huge fucking grackle? Grackles are kind of evil-looking and have great big beaks and I’m sure their bite is far, far worse than their bark.
The spud brought down her hamper, and I yanked the cord so that the blinds were out of the way. The grackle flew into the window and fluttered his wings. I held the hamper up so that the open end was around the grackle, and the grackle fluttered some more.
I had no idea what to do.
“I need… something,” I said, with the half-formed idea that I’d put a magazine over the top of the hamper and carry it to the back door, two rooms away.
“Why don’t you just open the window and push the screen out?” the spud suggested.
Since it was an excellent idea – go, spud! – I did just that. When Mister Boogers saw me open the window, he knew what was going to happen next, and he ran out the cat door to sniff at the bird through the screen. I pushed a corner of the screen out, and the bird flew into the screen and grabbed on for dear life.
“No, dumbass. Go. Go out THERE, buddy!” I said. I pushed at him a little bit, and he caught sight of freedom, and flew off.
Mister Boogers ran after him, but wasn’t even close to catching him.
The interesting question is how the grackle got into the house. Did a cat catch him and bring him in, or did he come through the cat door on his own? I almost believe it’s the latter, because he was a big fucking bird and Mister Boogers didn’t seem too inclined to grab at him when he was fluttering against the window.
The funny thing is that just last night Fred’s mother and stepfather came over to check out the kittens (and bring us a loaf of sourdough bread, aka MANNA FROM HEAVEN), and his stepfather asked if we’d had any possums in the house this spring, and Fred indicated that we had not, and I said “We haven’t had any birds in the house, either!”
Famous last words.
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This is the section about the kittens.
Thanks, y’all, for your advice about the kittens. I got some advice from the lady who runs the shelter, too, and basically all I did was put out more litter boxes – in the corners where a few of them peed – and covered the spot behind the door (where a litter box won’t fit) with a towel so that if they pee, at least it won’t go on the rug.
We have officially named all the kittens. Meet:
Edgar.
Flossie.
Oy.
Peanut.
Snoopy.
Mia.
Yes, that would be two names – Oy and Mia – from the Dark Tower books. Just be glad we didn’t name one of them Roland of Gilead.
I finally figured out how to tell Edgar and Oy – the black and white kittens – apart.
Edgar.
Oy.
Edgar’s white stripe, in the middle of his face, is narrower than the white stripe Oy has. Also, the black comes down farther on the right side of Edgar’s face than it does on Oy’s. Also, Edgar has a little freckle under his chin, but that doesn’t usually show in the pictures I take.
We weighed and dewormed the kittens last night. Snoopy is the heaviest, at 1 pound, 1 ounce – which is appropo, since we named him after Tubby (“Snoopy” being Tubby’s “real” name). The smallest cat is Oy, at 12 1/2 ounces. I almost wish we’d weighed them when we first got them so I could have some idea of how much they’ve grown in the last week, but it never occurred to me. They’re definitely bigger, though – they’re growing so fast you can practically see it.
Peanut has learned, in the last day, to jump. He jumps! from one spot to another. He jumps! over my ankle. He jumps! onto his brother. Jump!Jump! Jump! I need to remember to take the camcorder upstairs with me one of these days.
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“Those stupid kittens can have their stupid room. I have MY DADDY.”]]>