The other residents

I decided that perhaps a post on the true rulers of the house was in order.

What, you don't believe me? Ask anyone who has cats. They keep us around for the opposeable thumb trick.

We are owned by three.

The eldest is a sealpoint Siamese of thirteen years, named Kore. She has eyes bluer than a mountain lake, fur softer than mink, and a voice that is a cross between a creaking gate and a hoarse crow. She has, in her mind, officially retired, and spends her days either sitting in the sunlight (often with her tongue out, which makes her look retarded) or sleeping on top of the heat vent, depending on the season. She also serves as the alarm clock; since she has lost many of her teeth, she eats canned food. She gets it at eight am and five pm. She is quite assiduous in letting me know when it is time, and specializes in delicately getting on top of my nightstand, placing her sweet little black nose an inch from my ear, and blaring loudly.

Then we have Cameline. She is named for a medieval sauce, and she is indeed a saucy little girl. She is a red tabby with white shirt front, and the Angora gene, which gives her a lovely golden ruff, a coat that is like touching raw silk, breeches, and a plumy tail that she loves to run along the backs of unsuspecting knees at the dinner table. I have given up wearing shorts. She likes to go into the basement in the fall and hunt crickets. She'd be an excellent mouser if she had learned how to kill. As it is, she carried it about like a kitten and was fascinated by the self-propelled toy she'd found. (I caught it in a jar and put it outside.) She also loves my wool roving. I finally got a plastic box that sealed up to keep her out of it so I didn't have to recomb it before I used it. She LOVES people food. But we learned the hard way never ever to give her shellfish.

Lastly, we have Puck. He is black, with a bit of white on his belly, and is utterly....well, he's very, very sweet, and very loving, and he does love to play, but he's just not the sharpest tool in the drawer, if you know what I mean. He loves laps. Sit down to watch TV without sewing or spinning, and you'll have a lapful of ecstatic silky black purr. He also talks, in little chirrups and prrts that are funny to hear, especially when he is playing with a toy mouse. He adores the little tiny real-fur ones. I buy them in non-real colors so I know what it is when he bats it across the floor. He cherishes them. I find them tucked into my bedding and sewing basket and other odd spots where he's put them to keep them safe. He will even play fetch with them. He especially likes to play fetch when one has found a mousie in the bed and would like to go to sleep. The trick is not to fling it off the bed, but to distract him with one hand and put the mousie under the pillow. You can drop it on the floor once he gets bored and leaves. (giggle)


And now, a cat story. My husband is not the most organized person in the world. I impose organization on things that matter to me, and let him file and pile and lose his own things. As he looked frantically for something through his desk, he let out a hearty, "Oh, F*CK!"

The black cat came bounding over with his, "You called me, Daddy?" trill.

We both sat down and laughed til we cried.