Thursday, January 20, 2005
Cats, cats, wonderful cats!
I called my father, The Grumpaw, yesterday. I had wanted to ask if my mother needed anything in particular for her birthday, which is rapidly approaching. My mother is notoriously difficult to shop for because, well, she has everything. We’ve been given instructions that “no more nick-nacks” are to be purchased. This leaves me wondering what the hell I’m going to get her.
So I had called to ask him how things were, see what’s going on, ask about the cats… when I got to the cats, he told me to get them out of his house. So I asked “What’s the problem”, expecting a tale of betrayal and tears, possibly about a roast being stolen off the kitchen counter…
No, it was that the cats “prevent [them] from doing things!”. “Like what?” I ask, innocently enough, knowing that when they were living with me, they were fantastic cats who never interfered with my daily life.
I was informed that the cats prevent them from:
- Reading the newspaper
- Knitting
- Using the computer
- Using the Grumpaw’s office
- Going up and down the stairs to the basement
- Going in and out of the house
Cats enjoy a good, spread-out newspaper. They believe it is an invitation for them, and specifically laid out for them, to lie down upon so you can pay them some overdue attention. Young cats in particular view moving yarn as a game and plaything, so they like to pounce from various positions (above, beneath, behind, beside). My cats are allowed outside as long as they stay inside the yard, which they usually do, so they really enjoy getting out any open doors. And, of course, cats really like to be where the people are and they enjoy exploring, so basements are a really neat area for them to get into, especially if the door is usually closed.
Apparently, however, my cats have been elevated to god-like status and are not to be interfered-with or disturbed in any way. Tobey in particular really enjoys sleeping in the chair in the Grumpaw’s office, and if he is sitting there, my father is unable to pick him up and relocate him to any chair (say, the one that is adjacent to the one he is sitting in). When they try to use the computer in the other room, the cats spot a wasted lap and immediately proceed to sit in it, which can interfere with typing, and occasionally they’ll walk across the keyboard. When this used to happen at my house, I would pick them up and put them on the floor, or blow at their faces, which horrified them and would cause them to leave on their own. My parents are apparently incapable of doing this. Maybe it’s their diminished lung capacity from being old.
The older cats remember the house from when they lived there with me at periodic intervals before I grew up and got my own place. They used to be able to go outside and roam the yard at their leisure. They expect the same privileges now, and my parents indulge their whims. They are let out, and monitored, and then let in when they want to eat some food or get some attention. Smudge is thrilled beyond belief that she has a yard to play in and routinely engages my mother in a game she finds irresistible. When it’s time to come in, she’ll run away, and when my mother catches up to her, she’ll run to the next spot, and wait for my poor mother to catch up. This continues until Smudge is either caught or gets bored with the game, unless it’s dinnertime, when she really wants to come in and be fed extra food and treats.
Caspar has them trained that it’s “Treat Time” right around 9:00 p.m. He comes to each of my parents, and pats them on the leg, and meows his squeaky little meow, and they are supposed to dole out treats. It’s very interesting, because he NEVER did that at my house.
I visited them the other day and observed some strange parental behaviour. I had taken the dogs with me, and Cooter, as you know, loooooves Smudge. He follows her around staring at her. He was instructed, by the Grumpaw, to “quit chasing the cats!”. Now Smudge is well-aware of Cooter’s intentions (that he follows her but at least knows his boundaries), and is able to let him know when he steps out of line by bopping him on the head with her little, tiny, white, furry paw. He will then back off, lie down and engage her in the “play” stance, which she ignores and goes about her business ignoring. He’ll continue following her, and she’ll continue on.
However, it seems she interpreted this command by the Grumpaw as instruction for her to tease the poor animal, which she then proceeded to do. She ran under his nose a couple of times. When we all sat down to dinner, she jumped right over his head and looked down at him. I should note that she jumped ONTO the dinner table, which has always been forbidden, but under this strange new god-like status, the cats are apparently allowed on the dinner table now.
She was also allowed to stay up there, watching us eat, and when she approached the Grumpaw’s dinner plate, he simply told her “You’re not getting my dinner.” And then he just watched as she got closer and closer, and when she was within reach of a morsel, he took his plate away. He thought the better of it when he reached the kitchen, though, and said that he was sure the cats would enjoy the gravy he had left… so he put the plate on the ground, and it was immediately cleaned up by the dogs. Not his intention! He admonished them, and then told my mother and me to save our gravy for the cats.
Smudge also approached the butter to try to get it, but he took that away, too, so I guess her privileges do have some limits. My mother, as well, cut her last piece of dinner into four small slices, which she then fed to the cats in turn. Each one gets a piece! No one may be left out! Of course not, because their feelings would be hurt.
The Grumpaw was instructed to feed the dogs some dog biscuits while my mother and I went out. He only gave them one biscuit each! When we got home, my mother, upon discovery of this, proceeded to feed them as many as they could stuff into their greedy little mouths.
I’m starting to think my parents need a pet of their own to spoil. When I get the cats over to our house, Rob is probably not going to be too keen on the fact that they’ll want to come in and take over. At least we’ll have the cat police on our side in that the dogs seem to know when the cats are doing stuff they’re not supposed to, and that grants them permission to chase them a little. I think now that the cats are in a dog-free environment, they realize it and are running rampant.
My parents are so lucky they get to spend time with my cats. I envy them, and can’t wait for the cats to come to our new home. It may be a while longer than we thought, but I guess all that means is they’ll get a little fatter where they are and enjoy a few more days of “extra privileges”. It’s nice to know they’re being well looked-after, though.
So I had called to ask him how things were, see what’s going on, ask about the cats… when I got to the cats, he told me to get them out of his house. So I asked “What’s the problem”, expecting a tale of betrayal and tears, possibly about a roast being stolen off the kitchen counter…
No, it was that the cats “prevent [them] from doing things!”. “Like what?” I ask, innocently enough, knowing that when they were living with me, they were fantastic cats who never interfered with my daily life.
I was informed that the cats prevent them from:
- Reading the newspaper
- Knitting
- Using the computer
- Using the Grumpaw’s office
- Going up and down the stairs to the basement
- Going in and out of the house
Cats enjoy a good, spread-out newspaper. They believe it is an invitation for them, and specifically laid out for them, to lie down upon so you can pay them some overdue attention. Young cats in particular view moving yarn as a game and plaything, so they like to pounce from various positions (above, beneath, behind, beside). My cats are allowed outside as long as they stay inside the yard, which they usually do, so they really enjoy getting out any open doors. And, of course, cats really like to be where the people are and they enjoy exploring, so basements are a really neat area for them to get into, especially if the door is usually closed.
Apparently, however, my cats have been elevated to god-like status and are not to be interfered-with or disturbed in any way. Tobey in particular really enjoys sleeping in the chair in the Grumpaw’s office, and if he is sitting there, my father is unable to pick him up and relocate him to any chair (say, the one that is adjacent to the one he is sitting in). When they try to use the computer in the other room, the cats spot a wasted lap and immediately proceed to sit in it, which can interfere with typing, and occasionally they’ll walk across the keyboard. When this used to happen at my house, I would pick them up and put them on the floor, or blow at their faces, which horrified them and would cause them to leave on their own. My parents are apparently incapable of doing this. Maybe it’s their diminished lung capacity from being old.
The older cats remember the house from when they lived there with me at periodic intervals before I grew up and got my own place. They used to be able to go outside and roam the yard at their leisure. They expect the same privileges now, and my parents indulge their whims. They are let out, and monitored, and then let in when they want to eat some food or get some attention. Smudge is thrilled beyond belief that she has a yard to play in and routinely engages my mother in a game she finds irresistible. When it’s time to come in, she’ll run away, and when my mother catches up to her, she’ll run to the next spot, and wait for my poor mother to catch up. This continues until Smudge is either caught or gets bored with the game, unless it’s dinnertime, when she really wants to come in and be fed extra food and treats.
Caspar has them trained that it’s “Treat Time” right around 9:00 p.m. He comes to each of my parents, and pats them on the leg, and meows his squeaky little meow, and they are supposed to dole out treats. It’s very interesting, because he NEVER did that at my house.
I visited them the other day and observed some strange parental behaviour. I had taken the dogs with me, and Cooter, as you know, loooooves Smudge. He follows her around staring at her. He was instructed, by the Grumpaw, to “quit chasing the cats!”. Now Smudge is well-aware of Cooter’s intentions (that he follows her but at least knows his boundaries), and is able to let him know when he steps out of line by bopping him on the head with her little, tiny, white, furry paw. He will then back off, lie down and engage her in the “play” stance, which she ignores and goes about her business ignoring. He’ll continue following her, and she’ll continue on.
However, it seems she interpreted this command by the Grumpaw as instruction for her to tease the poor animal, which she then proceeded to do. She ran under his nose a couple of times. When we all sat down to dinner, she jumped right over his head and looked down at him. I should note that she jumped ONTO the dinner table, which has always been forbidden, but under this strange new god-like status, the cats are apparently allowed on the dinner table now.
She was also allowed to stay up there, watching us eat, and when she approached the Grumpaw’s dinner plate, he simply told her “You’re not getting my dinner.” And then he just watched as she got closer and closer, and when she was within reach of a morsel, he took his plate away. He thought the better of it when he reached the kitchen, though, and said that he was sure the cats would enjoy the gravy he had left… so he put the plate on the ground, and it was immediately cleaned up by the dogs. Not his intention! He admonished them, and then told my mother and me to save our gravy for the cats.
Smudge also approached the butter to try to get it, but he took that away, too, so I guess her privileges do have some limits. My mother, as well, cut her last piece of dinner into four small slices, which she then fed to the cats in turn. Each one gets a piece! No one may be left out! Of course not, because their feelings would be hurt.
The Grumpaw was instructed to feed the dogs some dog biscuits while my mother and I went out. He only gave them one biscuit each! When we got home, my mother, upon discovery of this, proceeded to feed them as many as they could stuff into their greedy little mouths.
I’m starting to think my parents need a pet of their own to spoil. When I get the cats over to our house, Rob is probably not going to be too keen on the fact that they’ll want to come in and take over. At least we’ll have the cat police on our side in that the dogs seem to know when the cats are doing stuff they’re not supposed to, and that grants them permission to chase them a little. I think now that the cats are in a dog-free environment, they realize it and are running rampant.
My parents are so lucky they get to spend time with my cats. I envy them, and can’t wait for the cats to come to our new home. It may be a while longer than we thought, but I guess all that means is they’ll get a little fatter where they are and enjoy a few more days of “extra privileges”. It’s nice to know they’re being well looked-after, though.
