Friday after Thanksgiving. That's 'Mokey up in a little tree. We had dinner with Libby's Dad yesterday, at his retirement digs. It was a delicious meal, and the turkey was true to form, knocking the three of us out within a half-hour of consumption. We all dozed through the afternoon, with bits of the weird game between Houston and Detroit flickering into our consciousnesses: I for one pondered the two clearly missed defensive interference calls (not to mention the apparently accepted lacunae in the Tort of NFL which allowed an ultimately winning touchdown, via overtime doings to be sure, to be grounded in an inadvertent review-flag toss by the losing coach) as Libby and I drove down the sunset to Liberty and a date in the Laundro. This is life, kiddos.
At home, our three Houdahenians have now developed their fairly adult personalities, which include some disturbing features. Gray Bear (formerly Bruiser, now officially 'Mokey which is a contraction of Smokey), has for the past couple of weeks become extremely finicky as eating goes. It's actually pretty disturbing for us. We returned from the Greenville contradance to the expected hunger displays, and put various dishes down for the boys. The two black twins ate, but 'Mokey disdained. We tried other dishes for him. Disinterest. This went on for days, and eventually he grew weak. Last week it was three trips to the vet, several meds to aid in what was diagnosed as a severely acid stomach, and a couple of subcutaneous fluid injections. After five days he started eating again, which was a relief. But the finickiness is recurring again with this morning's feed--he eventually nibbled a bit of "human tuna," but that was about it.
Meanwhile, the other two brothers have appetites like linebackers, particularly the kitten formerly known as Wuzzy, who will eat all the plates full if allowed, and has developed the initially charming habit of leaping onto the counter and ripping open the dry bits bag, eating his overfill, and then barfing it up in some other room for us to step in later. Hahaha, Wuz, funny the first time, but really, it's sophomoric, it's not charming really, you are an adult now, get real, and you might think about the fact that if you keep eating the way you do you'll not be able to jump up on the counter at some point, because already you're misjudging your jumps, unlike Puzzle, who eats plenty but can still lithely land on where ever he cares to jump like a Johnson, either Andre or Calvin take your pick. So which would you rather be, Wuz? Fat Albert, or Andre?
We think 'Mokey is reveling in his lassitude. At least somewhat. "I am ill," he murmurs from the sleeping nook. "Please bring me some water and a few of those fish flakes, that's simply all I can digest right now." Eye rolls from us'n seem to make no impact.
Beyond the door, Momma has not come around for about a week. This was very worrisome, as she'd been as regular as a clock for sometime. We think she may have returned to her former digs down the road. I drove up and down the road yesterday and spotted her yellow Tom paramour in a yard, lounging as though he owned the joint, and just a glimpse of a smaller black cat disappearing behind a shed. It's said by neighbors that this down-the-road address sports a number of cats, and we've read that feral cats establish a territory and inhabit it. Possibly we're an outer precinct. As the chill fall nights have arrived, possibly Momma and Pops have moved back to cent-com. Certainly if particularly Pops will stay away, the boys might be allowed to just go out in the fall and frolic in the falling leaves, which they enjoy capturing and growling about. If we could let them out more, possibly 'Mokey will realize he's just another cat, not a Romantic Poet.
On the ride home Libby and I discussed outdoor pens--since there is no assurance that Pops won't drift by and chomp an unruly teen. I favor a Folly, perhaps with a suspension bridge of some sort exiting the porch and alighting into an outdoor kitty condo fenced to keep out unwanted predators. That way we can still have an unobstructed walk ourselves to any corner of the house. Perhaps it'll happen, and if so, pictures will be posted here.
For today, it's time for me to start climbing the various roofs under my care and sweeping the leaves off them. Otherwise, the leaves will cause the roofs to rust through. This is something I've recently learned, along with the current price of roofing tin, which is not at all what it once was.
On the political front, out beyond the edge of the woods and down the road to the city on the hill, here's a couple somethings to read:
http://www.thebaffler.com/past/the_long_con/print
http://bellacaledonia.org.uk/2012/11/15/mark-cousins-on-argo-iran-and-formulaic-thinking/
Saturday Update. I'll just stop reporting the tardiness of Momma until we actually find a body. This morning at 2 am she arrived on the porch, hungry. Libby fed her two bowls of cat food. She ate her fill, then sat on the edge of the stoop, grooming herself as though she lived here. I watched from the bedroom window. Libby also reported seeing a fox, which while not particularly good news, is and has been a part of the wild woods we live in for many many years.
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