If you don't see much of me this month, it's because I'm doing National Novel Writing Month, which involves writing 50,000 words during the month of November. Toy store job, blog, the fact that I'm probably developing pneumonia because I have a cold that won't go away… I totally have time for this! At this point, I'm only about 11,428 words behind where I should be by Day 9. I can definitely turn that around, right? If you're also a Wrimo, as we're apparently called, you should look me up! My username is Haley Wolfe because I'm terribly original like that.
I guess I'm telling you all this because, as in any time of severe stress, I am going to resort to writing about my cats.
Bette is not much of a jumper, probably because she is shaped like an adorable, cuddly pear that is full of squishy, but very heavy, rocks.
I think that's why she's mystified when our other, more agile cat does typical cat stuff, like finding his way to the top of the refrigerator.
Beds, chairs, couches, and low tables are within Bette's range, but even then, sometimes she seems to forget how she's supposed to transport herself to these places. Since jumping obviously does not come naturally to her, I don't think it's always the first solution to come to mind, or else it sounds like a lot of work and she's hoping an alternative will present itself.
Take this morning, for instance. Her normal routine is to come back into the bedroom after she eats her breakfast and jump up onto the bed for her mid-morning nap. But instead, she stops short at the foot of the bed and just stares up at it.
She sniffs underneath the bed.
She looks at me as though expecting guidance.
She stares at the bed some more.
I can only assume this is what she was thinking:
Finally, laziness prevailed, and she just walked away.