Our cat’s main purpose in life seems to be finding her toys and depositing them on our bed. Usually, they can be found all lined up as if waiting at the post office for stamps. I do believe they’re practicing a scaled down version of social distancing.
Peace, people.
Our kitty, Scout, thinks that if I’m in the bathroom she should be in the bathroom, as well. Unfortunately this morning I made the mistake of closing the bathroom door before she realized where I was.
Soon she was tapping against the bathroom door and meowing pitifully, but I was taking care of business and couldn’t stop to cross the room and open the door. Before long, she was shoving toys underneath the door.
I believe she thinks she’s sacrificing her toys to save me.
Peace, people.
Today was one of those days. My younger brother and his wife stayed the night with us on their way from Houston. Texas, to Fort Myers, Florida, where they’re going to pick up their brand new Airstream travel trailer.
They had their adorable dog, Gus, with them, so we kept our cat sequestered in the master suite last night. The two were aware of each other, but no one got chased and neither of them puked from nervousness, and we had a great visit with family.
It was a win-win. Still, I didn’t sleep well, and having the cat on my chest all night didn’t help much.
After breakfast at a local cafe our guests headed to Fort Myers and I came back to Doright Manor for a nap. The cat settled in beside me on the sofa in the den, and within minutes I was out like a light for the better part of two hours.
When I awakened it was as if I were in an alternate universe. The sky was dark, and I wondered if I’d slept the day away. I hadn’t. But a storm had blown in while I was napping making early afternoon look like nighttime.
I looked at the calendar on my watch fearing that I’d forgotten an appointment with the insurance adjuster, but realized that wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. Then I began thinking about the carpet I’d ordered. It was supposed to have arrived on the 19th. Today’s the 23rd. Hmmm.
The carpet company had required a deposit. Had I made one? I couldn’t remember. I knew I’d gone to their office to do so, but couldn’t remember actually making a payment. The checkbook didn’t have an entry either. Had I used a credit card? Suddenly I was certain that the reason my carpet hadn’t yet arrived was that it had never been ordered because I hadn’t paid a deposit.
I called the store, “Hi, this is Leslie Noyes. I think I ordered carpet from you, but I can’t remember actually making a deposit.”
The woman on the other end laughed, sort of, “We can sure check.”
A couple of seconds later she read off my address and said, “Yes, it appears you paid a deposit using your credit card, and we’re just awaiting delivery of your carpet.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or humiliated or worried for my sanity. I’m going to blame it all on the lack of sleep and the lengthy nap I took this afternoon. I’m going to avoid using sharp objects, though, for the remainder of the day.
Peace, people!
Studly Doright sometimes must travel overnight on business. During the pandemic, though, he was able to be home every night. Company travel was suspended for the last three months. Now that businesses are opening up again, though, he’s had to make up for lost time.
Last night was his first on the road, and I hate to admit that I was kind of looking forward to it. I’d already planned on getting a bit drunk and finishing my novel after determining that too much sober writing was inhibiting the writing process. However, I completed the novel while stone cold sober on Monday morning, so now I had no excuse to get tipsy whilst Studly was away.
I did go to bed later than our usual old people time of 9 p.m., and I read awhile longer before falling asleep. Such a little rebel.
Usually when Studly is away at night I struggle to fall asleep, but I don’t even remember the light of my Kindle fading, so quickly was I in lala land. But around 1 a.m., Scout kitty sauntered into the bedroom meowing loudly.
I knew she had no immediate needs, so I turned over and tried to go back to sleep. Scout promply jumped onto the bed, stood by my head, and without warning, puked all over my pillow.
My reflexes took over. I plopped her onto the floor, where she continued retching, and ran to the bathroom to get a wet cloth to clean up her mess. On my way back to the bed, I stepped in the additional cat puke. I said a really awful word before wiping the sole of my foot and returning to the bathroom for a clean wet cloth. This time I thought it wise to turn on the lights fearing there were piles of puke everywhere.
Apparently, though, I’d stepped in the only little pile in our oversized bedroom. What are the odds? Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.
I took the soiled pillow case off of my pillow and wiped the sheet off, then the underlying mattress, but since it was the middle of the night and no one was sleeping on the other side of the bed I figured morning would be soon enough to change the sheets. I’d just take over Studly’s domain.
Once back under the covers I used the Calm app to begin relaxing enough to return to sleep, and I’d almost succeeded when I caught a whiff of cat puke. It was on my shoulder! I jumped out of bed, took off my pajama top and washed my left shoulder before putting on a different top. Fortunately I hadn’t been laying on that side and the sheet wasn’t contaminated.
Back in bed again, I tried to relax, but I began to worry about Scout. After all, I had ejected her from the bed rather violently. What if she was she really sick? After about half an hour of internal debate, I put on my glasses, turned on the lights, and went in search of my 16-year-old baby.
Scout was curled up on the sofa in the den and meowed when she saw me. I apologized for being so abrupt and for calling her a bad name. She followed me back to bed where she couldn’t stop giving me head butts and kitty kisses. She was so apologetic that I couldn’t go back to sleep for at least another hour.
Now, she’s off, happily patrolling the screened-in porch, while I’m preparing to wash the sheets and treat the carpet to a good cleaning. It’s 8:30 a.m., and I’m already looking forward to a nap.
Peace, people.
Normally Scout can be found acting as Studly Doright’s home office co-worker, and I have to work alone. We’ve decided she’s the head of Human Resources here at Doright Manor, and considers Studly to be more of an HR problem than I am.
Today, though, she’s been supervising my work. I’m not sure if it’s because she knows I’m coming to the end of the novel I’m writing and is trying to encourage me, or if she’s making sure I don’t slack off. Either way, she’s been sitting and staring at me for a good fifteen minutes. It’s kind of freaking me out.
Peace, people.
How are you? How are you coping right now? At my house, it’s just Studly Doright, Scout (our elderly cat), and me. Currently we have toilet paper and a plan in place in case that runs out. You really don’t want to know the details of that plan.
We have food enough for at least two weeks, more if we dig into our stash of things we aren’t crazy about eating, but will if we have to. I’m not sure how we manage to buy items that we think we’ll eat, but never do. Some of it is left over from the last time the grandkids visited, but most of the unwanted foods were purchased with good intentions.
Studly is working from home with lots of help from Scout, who now makes sure he’s up and ready to head to the office around 6 a.m. Her favorite thing is helping him with conference calls. She’s probably saved the company a fortune simply by adding her occasional meow to the conversations.
I’m sort of a loner anyway, so except for the fact that now 99% of my time is spent at home all day every day, nothing much has changed. Before the pandemic, I’d go on solo expeditions looking for things to use as blog fodder.
I worry about our kids and grandkids, my brothers and their families and Studly’s mom and his siblings. Worry isn’t productive, though, so I pray for them all every day, often more than once. I hope someone out there is praying for me.
Oh, and I think about all of the bloggers I follow. If I don’t see a post from the regulars fairly often I begin to fear the worst. Please post something, even if it’s just a meme or a photo or a reassuring sentence. Let me know you’re okay. Same with those who follow me. You’re important to me.
Again I ask, how are you?
Peace, and stay well, people.
Studly Doright and his co-worker, Scout, look over the day’s agenda. He says she’s taking direction fairly well, and seldom questions his judgement. She also works for room, board, and meals, so that’s a plus. Her bonus pay consists of treats on demand and an occasional scratch behind the ear.
I applied for the job, but lost out due to ergonomic and spatial constraints: I cannot arrange myself on the desk like Scout can.
Peace, and stay well, people.
There’s a cat sleeping on my lap.
I need to rise and shine, but I cannot do so. My legs are numb from the weight of her. In fact, it’s possible that everything from my hips down has atrophied. I’d likely topple over if I tried to stand, so for now I’m snuggled in bed with a cat on my lap.
There are far worse predicaments to be in. Maybe I’ll mediate while I’m here. Ommmm. Or call it yoga. I’ve heard of goat yoga, why not cat yoga? The Sleeping Cat Captive pose.
Peace, people.
If you’re a blogger do you find that sometimes titles for blog posts pop into your head? You might not have anything in mind to write about, then, wham! I have that happen all the time, and sometimes the titles even develop into something that’s printable.
Right now I’m figuratively sitting on half a dozen titles, some I’ve attempted to flesh out with additional words, while others have remained untouched.
Here are a few titles in my draft file. Hopefully by sharing these some creative urge will strike. Otherwise, I’m going to write more about my cat’s urination habits, and I think we’ve all had enough of that. I have anyway.
Things We Mourn (I think this is going to be a poem)
Weighing In (me, talking. Earth shatttering, I know)
Life on Mars (rambling poem–it rhymes sort of)
About Your Mom (everything the grandkids need to know about my daughter, their mom)
That Song (I have no idea)
Collective Whole (A thing I thought and then forgot)
Are you a “Title” person? Does the title come first or do you add one just before you publish? I’m truly curious.
Peace, people
My mom was a stickler for a well made bed. As the only girl child in her home I was judged by my ability to create precise hospital corners and deliver a perfectly smooth bedspread. Wrinkles were a no-no. I let her down. A lot.
As a mom, I was much more relaxed with my bed making rules; although, I did attempt to demonstrate the principles my mom tried to instill in me. Neither of my kids paid much attention to the lessons, though, and I didn’t think bedspreads were the hills I wanted to die on. Pick your battles, right?
Nowadays at Doright Manor, my bed making philosophy revolves around our psychotic younger cat, Patches. I call it “Layering. It’s not just for clothing anymore.”
Patches has developed the nervous habit of peeing on just about any surface that suits her when the anxiety strikes. We took her to the vet to see if there was an underlying medical reason for her bladder control issues, and she’s fit as a fiddle. The vet prescribed a special food, but it requires about eight weeks to kick in.
She also prescribed an anti-depressant that I have to rub on the inside of Patches’s ear every 12 to 24 hours. I’m afraid the lengths I have to go to to corral Patches and administer the drug are increasing her anxiety levels and aren’t doing much for mine either.
She thinks I have an ear fetish. I’m afraid she’s right.
So what does this have to do with making the bed? Twice now Patches has relieved herself on our bed necessitating the laundering of our heavy bedspread that takes forever to dry. Following the first time I added an additional layer of covering to our bed. After the second time, I realized one layer was simply not enough. Now the rule is to have at least three layers on the bed in addition to the bedspread. 
This isn’t going to get me a mention in Better Homes and Gardens any time soon, now is it? And my mom would be so heartbroken. Sorry, Mom!
Oh, before you suggest I use deterrent sprays and/or calming sprays, trust me. We’ve been there; done that with multiple concoctions. Patches seems totally immune to their effects.
She does seem to be making a bit of progress, though. Knock on wood, but I haven’t detected any pee on the baseboards or behind Studly Doright’s chair in the past couple of weeks, and those were among her favorite areas to go. And this morning for the first time in ages I watched her play with one of her toys.
We’d appreciate good vibes for Patches, and for me. It now takes me longer to make and unmake my bed than it does me to shower in the morning. And that’s the truth.
Peace, people.
Don’t be fooled by the sweet face. She’s plotting her next attack.
