Monday, November 21, 2011
Chats du jour: Shattered
I haven't talked about the cats much recently and I know you've missed that. There are some people, according to a completely unscientific survey, who read this blog only because of Laverne and Shirley.
And who can blame you? They are such cute cats. Obnoxious and demanding, but cute.
And not too bright. At least, Shirley isn't too bright, although she always gets what she wants, so maybe she is smarter than we think. She is the Dumb Blonde of cats. If Marilyn Monroe were a cat, she would be Shirley - dumb on the outside, smart on the inside.
But quick, she is not. This weekend, the chair you see in the photo above, which normally resides in our bedroom, was in the kitchen. We had company and needed an extra seat at the kitchen table.
Shirley was completely thrown off her game.
Her usual routine in the evening is to let Laverne whine until I feed them. Like the roosters I encountered in Latin America, who started their crowing at 2 a.m. because what if they didn't crow and then the sun didn't come up and everybody blamed them, Laverne starts whining at 3:30, an hour and a half before their suppertime. She has never been silent, but what if she were quiet and I FORGOT? Then it would be all her fault.
Laverne whines and Shirley watches Laverne whine. If I don't get moving fast enough for Shirley, then she will start to knock things off the counter, one at a time. Magazine, plop. Pen, plop. Grocery bag, plop. (Fabric grocery bags rolled up do plop when they hit the floor.) Battery, plop. Book, plop. Anything else we've been dumb enough to leave on the counter, plop.
Then I feed them, just to get Laverne to shut up and to get Shirley to stop destroying things.
Once they've eaten, Shirley goes downstairs to poop. Then she returns upstairs and sits on the cookbooks stacked behind me and watches me work on the computer.
Once I retire to the bedroom to read, she follows me.
And this is what she does.
She walks into the bedroom, which is not as simple as it sounds because sometimes the door is closed and opening doors is hard and she's not always sure about how to do it. Which side does she press? Or pull? Oh it's so complicated! Why won't Laverne open it for her?
Then she walks in. She does not push the door all the way open the way Laverne does. Laverne makes a grand entrance. She shoves the door to the wall and lets out all the heat that's built up from the space heater out of the bedroom. Thanks, Laverne.
But Shirley just glides in. Then she stands at the chair. This is one of the eight chairs I got from my granma after she moved into the nursing home and that SH and I loaded into his Passat and drove from northern Wisconsin all the way to Memphis, only to then move them back to Wisconsin a little bit later.
She stands at the chair.
And then she scratches it.
She loves to scratch that chair. It, along with the oak doorframes in the basement that replaced the pressed wood doorframes that were ruined in Basement Flood #1, is the only narrow wood item available to her for scratching.
I suppose I should be grateful that she limits her scratching to those two places (and to SH's formerly pristine basement speakers) and avoids the sofa.
She scratches the chair, then she jumps on it. Sits for a while. From there, she jumps to the dresser. Looks at herself in the mirror. Then she launches herself to the bed and finds the spot closest to the heater to curl up. The end.
She does this every single night.
But this weekend, she could not. There was no chair.
Rather than go straight to the dresser, she just sat. And stared. At the space where the chair should be.
This is where I must note that she had earlier that day scratched the chair in the kitchen. She knew it was the scratching chair. She had scratched it. But she did not remember that the chair was in the kitchen and that's why there was a space in the bedroom.
She sat, bewildered. She stared. Finally, she turned and walked away. She glared at me over her shoulder. Her day was ruined and it was all my fault.