Showing posts with label My Cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Cats. Show all posts
Friday, February 14, 2014
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Catsomnia
I have resigned myself to a sleepless existence.
Every night, I share a bed with three creatures who each want to be as close to me as possible.
The worst is Bogo. Not only does he sleep on my pillow and cover my face in cat hair, but when he's not sleeping, he uses my head as his own personal step ladder.
If he sees any of the neighbors' cats invading our yard, he leaps off the bed (clawing my face in the process), skitters into the living room, and looks out that window, yowling indignantly. It's all part of an intricate nightly schedule.
Lately we've considered shutting our bedroom door at night, but I have a sinking feeling it isn't going to help.
Oh well. At least I know I'm loved.
Every night, I share a bed with three creatures who each want to be as close to me as possible.
The worst is Bogo. Not only does he sleep on my pillow and cover my face in cat hair, but when he's not sleeping, he uses my head as his own personal step ladder.
If he sees any of the neighbors' cats invading our yard, he leaps off the bed (clawing my face in the process), skitters into the living room, and looks out that window, yowling indignantly. It's all part of an intricate nightly schedule.
Lately we've considered shutting our bedroom door at night, but I have a sinking feeling it isn't going to help.
Oh well. At least I know I'm loved.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Resolutions
People have lots of reasons for not making New Year's resolutions. I don't make them because I make resolutions all the time, which I embrace wholeheartedly for several days before forgetting them completely.
So instead of having one big failure in February or March, I get twelve months dotted with dozens of tiny failures. I'm pretty much immune to failure at this point.
So instead of having one big failure in February or March, I get twelve months dotted with dozens of tiny failures. I'm pretty much immune to failure at this point.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Bette Doesn't Like to Jump
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Bogo's Big Victory
We adopted both our cats from the same shelter at the same time. Bette was two years old; Bogo was seven. The personality card on Bette's cage classified her as a "Secret Admirer." Bogo's classified him as "The Leader of the Band." Over the past year, I've come to believe those cards were really, really accurate. Bette is content to cuddle and nap, and occasionally stare lovingly at you for minutes on end. Bogo wants to play nonstop and watch birds outside. When he wants your attention, he'll follow you around until he either trips you or you pick him up or start dangling his favorite ribbon.
Bette was a stray before we adopted her; Bogo was brought in by his owner, an elderly man with a ton of cats. When we adopted them, I think they both thought they were finally going to a home where they'd be the only cat, the sole object of the humans' love and attention.
But when they hopped out of their cardboard cat carriers in our apartment, they realized something had gone terribly wrong. Another cat had tagged along somehow.
This imposter was going to ruin everything.
For the most part, Bette and Bogo accepted their new living arrangement. It wasn't their dream home, but they did have two humans who loved them.
For the most part, they just ignore each other. Occasionally, they'll nap on the same bed (just not too close together), but any time Bogo walks by Bette, he hisses at her off-handedly without even looking at her.
I think this is the cat way of saying, "I still hate you." And then sometimes, they still have random bouts of cat rivalry.
Bette likes to sleep next to me under the covers. When she does this, she usually stays there all night.
But one night last week, I woke up in the middle of the night with a vague feeling that a struggle was taking place. I finally realized Bogo had laid down on top of Bette, effectively trapping her under the covers.
Bette eventually crawled to safety. Bogo laid next to me for about five more minutes before getting bored and leaving. I'm honestly still not sure whether he was trying to suffocate Bette, or he just thought he'd found something wonderfully warm and squishy to sleep on.
The next day, Ari and Bogo were playing with Mr. Mousey when Bette decided to exact her revenge. Mr. Mousey is the one toy that belongs to Bogo, and only Bogo. He is Bogo's most prized possession.
Bette could usually care less about playing, especially with Mr. Mousey, but this time, she leapt off the couch and thrust herself in front of Ari. Without thinking, he offered her the toy. As his arm swung in a wide arc toward Bette, I realized he was committing the biggest sacrilege in cat history, but it was too late.
When Ari turned back to Bogo, he looked utterly scandalized.
Ari tried to offer Mr. Mousey back to Bogo.
Ari followed Bogo into the kitchen to apologize.
No matter how hard Ari tried, Bogo refused to acknowledge him or Mr. Mousey. They had both been tainted with betrayal.
Meanwhile, Bette had sprawled in the living room floor looking extremely satisfied.
Ten minutes later, we watched Bogo slink back into the room. He trotted in a circle around Bette. They locked eyes, and he glared at her pointedly.
Bogo then proceeded to approach Ari at his computer chair and nuzzle him until Ari patted his head a few times.
Then he walked back over to Bette, nipped her on the neck, and chased her out of the living room.
These rivalries have gone on so long now, I've lost track of who started what, or who's won the most battles. But I do know that this time, Bogo emerged victorious.
Bette was a stray before we adopted her; Bogo was brought in by his owner, an elderly man with a ton of cats. When we adopted them, I think they both thought they were finally going to a home where they'd be the only cat, the sole object of the humans' love and attention.
But when they hopped out of their cardboard cat carriers in our apartment, they realized something had gone terribly wrong. Another cat had tagged along somehow.
This imposter was going to ruin everything.
For the most part, Bette and Bogo accepted their new living arrangement. It wasn't their dream home, but they did have two humans who loved them.
For the most part, they just ignore each other. Occasionally, they'll nap on the same bed (just not too close together), but any time Bogo walks by Bette, he hisses at her off-handedly without even looking at her.
I think this is the cat way of saying, "I still hate you." And then sometimes, they still have random bouts of cat rivalry.
Bette likes to sleep next to me under the covers. When she does this, she usually stays there all night.
But one night last week, I woke up in the middle of the night with a vague feeling that a struggle was taking place. I finally realized Bogo had laid down on top of Bette, effectively trapping her under the covers.
Bette eventually crawled to safety. Bogo laid next to me for about five more minutes before getting bored and leaving. I'm honestly still not sure whether he was trying to suffocate Bette, or he just thought he'd found something wonderfully warm and squishy to sleep on.
The next day, Ari and Bogo were playing with Mr. Mousey when Bette decided to exact her revenge. Mr. Mousey is the one toy that belongs to Bogo, and only Bogo. He is Bogo's most prized possession.
Bette could usually care less about playing, especially with Mr. Mousey, but this time, she leapt off the couch and thrust herself in front of Ari. Without thinking, he offered her the toy. As his arm swung in a wide arc toward Bette, I realized he was committing the biggest sacrilege in cat history, but it was too late.
When Ari turned back to Bogo, he looked utterly scandalized.
Ari tried to offer Mr. Mousey back to Bogo.
Ari followed Bogo into the kitchen to apologize.
No matter how hard Ari tried, Bogo refused to acknowledge him or Mr. Mousey. They had both been tainted with betrayal.
Meanwhile, Bette had sprawled in the living room floor looking extremely satisfied.
Ten minutes later, we watched Bogo slink back into the room. He trotted in a circle around Bette. They locked eyes, and he glared at her pointedly.
Bogo then proceeded to approach Ari at his computer chair and nuzzle him until Ari patted his head a few times.
Then he walked back over to Bette, nipped her on the neck, and chased her out of the living room.
These rivalries have gone on so long now, I've lost track of who started what, or who's won the most battles. But I do know that this time, Bogo emerged victorious.
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