The Furball Diaries
For all you Furball fans (all three of you!) he has taken to pushing notes requesting rescue under the bathroom door.I have tried to get a mug shot or two and ended up with dubious portraits of my knee, my foot, a shelf, a box and an expanse of floor. Now the camera is missing so I have no doubt that Furball prefers to remain anonycat. If I ever find the camera again I shall put him on my bed and tuck in the mosquito net firmly and see if that keeps him in one place long enough for pixels to be captured.
He grows apace. By some quirk his voice gets larger even as he does. The walls reverberate with his rude remarks on people who keep him incarcerated when he could be bouncing off a much wider variety of walls. He is also a first class con artist and has perfected the 'Oh please help me I have gotten myself into dreadful trouble' cry, a yowl that trails off into a weakened whimper and then ends with an ominous silence that goes on and on and on until I go to the door and open it only to be spun in place like a top by the rush of air that sweeps by me and out into the body of the apartment.
All this and he is still only a little bigger than the palm of my hand.
At least he really likes his litter box.
Comments (2)
When I lived in Maryland, we had 89 of whom 15 were house trained. They had 3 floors to play in and race down the stairs chasing toys and each other. When they tired out, they all laid in the main hall/living room and went to their nappylands listening to Vivaldy, Mozart, etc. I discovered that most cats love the 18th cent. period of music...quiets them down and they stretch out and nap all over the room...guests had to be quiet...%D Those were the days...