Casper's Advice

Casper, is a sociable fellow. If I'm in the kitchen, he hangs out nearby, in the family room. If I'm sewing, he strolls in, tail aloft, and curls into a ball on a stool by the window, killing two birds with one stone---sunshine and company. Or, if I'm working on a quilt,he'll position himself, with a languid stretch, in the middle of it.[He thinks I make them solely for that purpose.] So,it's a no-brainer. If I'm on the computer he's right there at my feet, snoozing away companionably, or frequently, in my lap, having a blog read right along with me.

In this way he became aware that there are kittens out there. At Isabelle's, to be exact. So for the past week he's been giving me no peace. He wants a shot at being a guest blogger. What can I say? This animal is my roommate, friend, confidante, cuddler, and comforter. It would be churlish to refuse. Without further ado, here's Casper,cat extraordinaire.



"Greetings Bloggers! She [who must be humoured] thinks I'm suddenly interested in blogging. Not so. Blogging makes me yawn. But, sitting on her lap recently, I caught a glimpse of some very fetching kittens, which made me sit up and pay attention. I am of the opinion that kittens get way too little advice from grown up cats,and I would like to rectify that situation for Sirius and Cassie, by giving them the benefit of my own experience.

People like to think they own us cats. They even think they can train us. Harmless myths. Ones you might want to play along with in the interests of keeping them happy. Just as long as you never forget that it is you who own them, and you who need to make sure that they are properly trained.

The most important things in a cat's life, I'm sure you will both agree, are, food, comfort, grooming, playtime, comfort, clean litter, comfort, more food, and the biggies, relaxation and sleep. Oh, and in case I forgot to mention it, comfort.

Food is essential. Without it you will never grow into the lithe, graceful, creatures you are meant to be. You should establish at the outset, that you will not settle for just any food. Make sure they provide you with a varied diet. If, every time you come to your dish, with a great hunger on you, and find there the same boring old dry food, be brave. Stalk away in disdain, even though you feel faint. This will worry them enough that they will go to the store and fetch something new,with which to tempt you. This behaviour should be reinforced, perhaps by a little reward, such as, after you have partaken of the new delicacy, climbing into a lap, and purring appreciatively. They will be charmed with you and will know how to respond the next time you turn your nose up at the offerings in your dish.

Early in your life with your people you should ascertain which are the most comfortable chairs and claim them as your own. This may take some perseverance, but the results will be worth it. The first time he comes home from work and finds you curled up in his favourite chair, the man of the house is likely to be grumpy, and perhaps even go so far as to shove you off. By acting injured and hurt by this ungentlemanly behaviour you can win other members of the family to your side. Enough "Poor kitty!"s and "How could you Dad's," and you'll be well on your way to ownership of that chair. Of course you don't want to alienate him altogether. After all, he is labouring under the illusion that it is his house. It might be best to try to work out a compromise wherein you share the chair.


People are naive. When they are new to cat co-habitation they have no idea of what fun we can have with ordinary things. Lace curtains, fluttering in the breeze, for instance, are there to be climbed. The tantalising wiggle of yarn, as the lady in your life works on her knitting, is an invitation to a romp, with the aim of getting deliciously tangled in it. We practice our hunting skills by capering after the shadows cast by sunlight on walls, and by stalking every bug who has the temerity to crawl across the carpet. Paper sacks from the grocery store make the greatest hiding places. And boxes. Insist that they keep a variety of boxes around for you to play hide and seek in. Likewise baskets. Who can resist an adorable kitten curled up in a basket? However, they should be of high quality, not those substandard objects sold as "cat beds." Settle only for the handmade variety..... They'll buy "toys" for you, but feel free to ignore them. It will finally dawn on them to put a little creative effort into your toys. A feather, for instance, can provide hours of enjoyment. And who would want a store bought "mouse" when a much better creature can be achieved with some good quality fur and a piece of string?

Sleeping arrangements are another thorny subject. My own mistress has a very comfy down comforter on her bed. My favourite place to sleep at night is on this comforter, exactly where her feet are. Which makes her cranky, so I am sometimes forced to move, temporarily, to another part of the bed. I just wait until her breathing sounds deep and even. Then reposition myself, if not on, then right next to, her feet.

If, when morning comes, your people are not rising with sufficient alacrity, you can approach the problem in one of several ways. My own first resort is to approach the sleeping head on it's pillow, find the nose, and give it a gentle nudge. If this doesn't work, repeat, a little more forcefully. But proceed with caution. They tend to be difficult to reason with before they have that first cup of coffee. If you're still not getting the desired results, remove yourself to the door of the room, and yowl piteously. Just be ready to dodge flying slippers. Persistence again, is key. You will soon have them dancing to your tune.

One last thing worth mentioning. It's okay to love your people. As long as you do it with dignity. No dog-like slobbering please. And remember to maintain an air of mystery, like me......


.....just to keep them guessing.

Well bloggers, this has been exhausting, but I felt I had a duty to kittendom.I may not have covered everything, but I've made a start. Happy romping,Cassie and Sirius, and please let my mistress know if you have any questions. I will be available again right after I take my afternoon nap. As I mentioned earlier, blogging makes me yawn."

There you have it folks. From Casper's mouth to the kittens' ears. Who knew he would be so long-winded? Cassie and Sirius probably dropped off for a nap after the first paragraph. But it'll all be here on the blog when they have questions.......


Postscript: A comment from Thimbleanna sent me scurrying to her blog to do some intensive snooping. Got caught up reading, and so was taken by surprise when I scrolled back some more---to her June 26 th. post and there looking out at me was a gorgeous relative of Casper's! Scruff, by name. Go check it out. I swear I had no idea! Great minds indeed!

Macho, Macho Duck

Got off my rear this evening and went on a bike ride. Scared into it by an e-mail from Rise, titled Imminent Alien Landing, with details of her arrival time tomorrow. That woman is fit. And I am not - as. So I gritted my teeth and pedalled doggedly into the wind. Set no land speed records, but went the whole, hour-long route, mulling things over in my head. All the gobbledygook with which it is usually filled. And then some.

Stopped before home at the little lake nearby. Except that, with our lack of rain this spring, it has shrunk to a mere puddle. The whole area is a bird sanctuary, and there are signs to that effect, lest you get too trigger-happy with your shotgun.

After propping my bike against a tree, I walked along the little wooden pier. The light was fading, but I could make out the dark shape of a largish duck against the light of the water. He was busy, ducking his head under, for food, I presumed. As I watched I thought "That fish, or whatever, is putting up quite a fight."

Mr. Duck, a muscovy [homely looking critter], was doing some heavy-duty wiggling. But then he apparently gave up the fight. Lo, and behold! A female duck materialised from under him! He strutted [yeah! I'm the man!] from the water, and she waddled after him, both of them spreading their wings and shaking out their feathers, folding their wings back in place, then stretching upwards and giving the tailfeathers a vigorous waggling. Aha. Not dinner time after all. Eine kleine Nachtmusik. Just a little early.

They seemed very satisfied with themselves, and unconcerned that a pair of mallards nearby might have been traumatised for life.

An egret was darting around the water's edge. Usually when I see egrets they are playing statue. With their necks folded into exaggerated esses,they stalk their prey stealthily and almost motionlessly in preparation for the lightening strike at some hapless fish, minding his own business under the water. But this little fellow was hungry, darting to left and right in the muddy shallows. He looked kind of ungainly and as if he might have been glad of a good pair of wellies.

Suddenly the peace was shattered by the loud honking, nearby, of a sandhill crane. Such elegant fowl! Such obnoxious noise! Like those noisemakers people like to take to sports events. The ones that whirl around and make a clacking sound. And make you want to choke the owner.

There appeared to be some kind of domestic dispute going on between two cranes. They mate for life you know. Not to be confused with living happily ever after. I felt for them. Why can't we all just be nice to each other and quit honking?

Got back on the bike in the gathering gloom. Wobbled, lost my balance and fell off, hitting the grass, with a bone jarring thump. Lay where I'd fallen, wallowing in the humiliation, gingerly feeling my bones, and wishing I were a duck. Not a sex-crazed muscovey, but a nice, civilised little mallard. A less than auspicious ending to a so-so day.

Things will definitely look up tomorrow, as my beloved sister is arriving, and having her here will make all my owwees better.

One Sorry, Soggy Cat

Sitting here about an hour ago, catching up on blogs, I suddenly became aware of an unusual sound. Frantic scrabbling. No one in the house but me. Oh-oh. And El Pussygato. Who has been wanting to be outside a lot of late, on lizard patrol around the pool. And spying on birds. And exchanging insults with a squirrel........Went to the door, which I had left open so he could come and go with minimal yowling.

Poked my head out enquiringly into the darkness. And was nearly knocked over by a streak of white, very wet cat, travelling in excess of a hundred miles per hour, through the door, to the safety of the house.

Following his soggy trail, I found him cowering under the bed, eyes like saucers, looking very bedraggled. But he wasn't coming out. Not for me. Not for anybody. Time for some reverse psychology. Who me? Curious about how you got so wet? Whatever gave you that idea?

Soon he came slinking by the couch, giving a wide berth to the sliding door to the pool, casting anxious and distrustful looks at the darkness beyond. I talked to him soothingly, and he let me pick him up and wrap him in a towel and gently pat him dry. The smell of recently -almost -drowned cat is not up there with Channel No. 5. But I snuggled on regardless, and was rewarded soon with the tentative beginnings of a purr. Which grew. And grew. And now he's busy washing himself and trying to recover from the indignity of falling in the pool. And hoping the squirrel wasn't watching.

I may never know how it happened. But he's my good buddy. I'm so glad he figured out how to swim.

A Walk by the Gulf

life Has its momentsA doctor's appointment took me south today, and after being poked and prodded and declared sound, of body at least, I was free to go. Having come so far, it seemed a waste to just turn around and head home, so I didn't.

First, to a quilt shop. It's one of the nicer ones, and I felt like I'd stepped into the middle of a rainbow. Such beautiful, vibrant colors! Didn't need anything special, but did find, way at the back, a bin of clearance priced fat quarters at fifty cents each! AND there were even some pretty ones, not just rejects....

Came out into the blue and breezy sunshine, and spotted a leafy green lane, right across the street from the quilt shop, at the end of which lane the waters of the gulf glistened invitingly. I'm a sucker for leafy green lanes. Add some water, and how can I resist? I set off, on foot, down said leafy green lane to see what I would see. It wound along between the gulf and the big sprawling gardens of some lovely old houses. There were lazy swings in some, suspended from big gnarly, old Florida trees. A small dog yapped at me from a porch. The woman sitting on the porch with him smiled and waved.

"He's just saying hello," she called out.

I smiled and waved back.

On the gulf side of the path there were small docks with a variety of boats tied up to them. One little pier, in particular, caught my eye. Squadrons of gulls were standing on it , all facing into the brisk breeze. They looked so military. I wondered if their commander had issued the order "beaks south, gentlemen," and that was how they ended up, to a man, I mean bird, all facing in exactly the same direction.

As I retraced my steps towards the car, I stopped to talk to another woman who was weeding in her lovely garden, in front of her lovely house. I wondered if she knew why the birds all faced in the same direction? She believed they faced into the wind so as not to get their feathers ruffled. Sensible birds. I also like to do things in a way that won't get my feathers ruffled. In spite of my best efforts though, I often seem to ruffle other feathers.

As we chatted, in civilised fashion, my Inner Beachcomber was making a pain of herself inside my head.

"Go on, ask her! Ask her if you can move into a small room in her attic! Tell her you'll be no bother, she won't even know you're there! Then we can walk along by the water every day, and gaze out on it from our attic window every night. Go on, ask her!"

I managed to squelch the beachcomber, and making a last complimentary comment about the lady's lovely garden, I went on my way.

"Rats!" said the beachcomber. "You're no fun!"

And so we wended our way slowly homeward, stopping at this shop and that, and most importantly, the nice bakery along the way. The beachcomber sulked, but her spirits lifted when I promised that on the next trip to the doc, we'd bring more sensible shoes and go a little further, to a really nice beach and have a really long walk.

Riding in Cars with Cats

When I left town in September and Le Chat had to stay at the cathouse for two whole weeks, he was not pleased. When I arrived to bail him out, I could hear him, yowling obnoxiously, long before I saw him. The Madam was all sweet googly kitty talk . He was so vocal, she enthused, the neighboring businesses suspected her of harboring a full grown tiger. Which means he made a royal pain of himself.

Next week I'm leaving town again. Guess who doesn't want to go to the cathouse? My friend invited him to stay at her house instead, and hang out with her girls. So today we had a trial run.

First I had to get him into the car. He's always interested in peeking outside when the door is open, so I maintained an air of nonchalance as I went back and forth, because he's only interested as long as it doesn't involve him. As soon as it starts to look like you might have plans to stuff him in a cage and take him to the vet, he hides under the bed. My acting was superb. I had him in the car , struggling, and very p.o'd before you could say Meow. I didn't even try to wrestle ten pounds of strong, unwilling cat into the cage.

Being loose in the car was new and different. He sniffed around, keeping up a yowl of complaint all the while. When he tried to climb over my head and left scratch marks on my forehead, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. But I talked to him soothingly about how we were only going to visit B, and he was going to meet her girls, who, I assured him, were quite lovely. They were just like him, I explained, in my most hypnotically soothing voice, with four legs each, and whiskers, and tails....

To my surprise he settled down. Not on the towel I'd spread on the back seat of course, but on the passenger seat, where he carved out a nest between the purse and the project bag and my jacket... but at least he'd quit complaining. He turned enquiring blue eyes on me every few minutes,
and ventured a few questioning mews...but then we were there.

I got him in the door of B's house without getting my face ripped off and set him down. The girls came to see who the interloper was. He submitted, tensely, to a thorough sniffing from Nugget, whose message seemed to be--"OK boy, you can stay. But don't go losing the run of yourself; I'm the boss around here. " Rosie gave him a dismissive glance and stalked away.

We left them to their own devices. There was no hissing, no snarling, and no fur flying. Totally civilised behaviour. An altogether successful trial run. Of course, when it was time to leave, there were two grown women with bad knees, crawling around on the floor trying to coax Le chat out from under the bed.

A Dog Named Suze

Talking with my California Girl recently, and hearing the constant "yip, yip, yip, yip, yip!" of her dog's eleven, yes, eleven, puppies in the background, got me thinking about dogs. Specifically, dogs we have had. Specifically, The Suze.

The OC never had a pet growing up. His family was too busy establishing themselves in this country. My mother was a farmer's daughter, and to her, animals belonged on farms and in zoos, certainly not in her living room. I regularly brought strays home, thinking this time she'd relent. One time she did. She let me keep a black cat I'd found. But he was a promiscuous fellow, always out chasing the ladies, and getting into battles with rivals for their "affections". One time too many he arrived home, after an evening of adventure, with his ear hanging off....

And then there was the time a cocker spaniel followed me home. I was flattered that he liked me and fell hopelessly in love. He was a handsome fellow and charmed my mother too, so she said I could keep him until his owner showed up. For a full week, he followed me everywhere and, unknown to mother, slept at the end of my bed. I felt like a heroine in an Enid Blyton novel, the girl and her loyal canine companion. But by week's end the owner of the LCC showed up, claimed his dog and broke my heart.

When we were first married the OC was studying for his master's and I was teaching. One day in the teachers' lounge I heard another teacher talking about her black lab's beautiful puppies. We went to see them....... And then there were three.....

We were not allowed to have animals in our apartment so had to be very sneaky. We figured that by the time The Suze [named for the song Suzy Q] became unhideable, we'd be out of there and on our way to the OC's first AF assignment.

The Suze traveled to and from classes in the deep pockets of the OC's field jacket. He had to wear thick leather gloves so that she could be kept happy chewing on his hand, while profs expressed disgust that graduate students could be so immature as to make puppy noises while they wrote on the blackboard. The Suze was born to chew. Nothing was safe. Not the covers of the OC's LP collection, not our books, not my lovely, new, cork heeled sandals.....

When we set out on our cross continent trek to the OC's first assignment the Suze came too.

When our first child was born the Suze never showed the slightest bit of jealousy. In time she and Liz became inseparable. If she tired of toddler ways she'd sigh, get up and move to another part of the house or yard. On New Year's Eve the OC always shared some champagne with his girl. She loved it. If her hero was giving it to her it had to be good, even if it did make her lips curl. The Suze sometimes suffered from puppy flatulence. Feeling something happening 'back there' she'd turn and look indignantly at her tail. Never a dull moment. And when she slept she dreamed of chasing rabbits.

By the time Liz was in sixth grade and had two brothers and a baby sister, the Suze was in failing health. It was sad to see her getting so old and blind, and finally the vet said the kindest thing would be to put her to sleep. That was a mournful day at our house. She'd been a loyal and loving friend. We hoped that she was in doggie heaven with a constant supply of her favourite bikkies, plenty of rabbits to chase, and angels available round the clock to administer titsie rubs.

Blue for a Boy

Somedays I get an overwhelming urge to do something new and creative---and no, if I've been working on it for two years it doesn't qualify! Yesterday
was such a day. Having recently let my mouth get me in trouble [repeat after me: "If you have nothing good to say, say nothing,"] I have been summarily lopped from the family tree, perhaps permanently. Maybe creativity justifies use of space and oxygen. Who knows? Not me.

And so to the sewing room! Some friends of the YB recently provided a reason for creativity. They had a baby. "And it must follow as the night the day," when someone has a baby, I make a quilt. Not a five year project, painstakingly hand stitched for a sweet grandson who has our blood coursing through his veins, obviously, but a quickly and enthusiastically machine stitched project I can race to the finish line with before the devil knows what I'm up to.

I had a small stack of six-inch churn dash blocks, in various shades of blue on a light blue background. I had made them a few years ago, for the quilt I was making for T, my first grandson. But I changed my mind [a woman's prerogative!] , and that quilt went in a different direction. The blocks had been languishing, unloved, in a box ever since. "But today, my darlings, is your lucky day. You're going to be the stars of my next production!"


I spread them out on the floor, El Pussygato's cue to arrive on the scene and throw himself down for a langurous stretch right in the middle. That's one quilt-crazy cat. Or maybe he's just trying to get my attention? Hello? She's making a quilt - aha! If I throw myself down here she's bound to notice me and scratch behind my left ear --- or, at the very least, throw a pincushion my way --- some acknowledgement of my existence.

Too much blue, I thought. With more blue background and some yellow in hand, I sat in front of my sewing machine. Soon I had a happy arrangement of blocks, the yellow adding some oomph! to the blues.

Several days later.....

Top finished, borders on, layered, basted, bound and DONE!! And its only five days since I started. QED ---- that it could be done [by me, the queen of procrastination.]

The Minutiae of Existence...

"So what's new today?"the OB cheerfully asks on the phone each night from his new nest in the north. And, "Vat you do today M?" on the nightly visit to the elders. They really don't want to know. Mostly I've been moping and wandering and thinking about what I should be doing, but this persistent cloud of inertia has settled over me.......Enter the Flylady via "notinyourear"! I can do anything for 15 minutes.....Where to start? Two areas where the cat has barfed [he's feeling mopey too]. And of course they're not on the tile, oh no! For barfing purposes the softer, lighter, more absorbent surface is preferred. To give me some credit, I had cleaned up what was removable, blotted thoroughly and sprayed. But then it sat, and sat....

So, Flylady-inspired, I attacked the first spot. Armed with an old toothbrush and a cup of warm water, the better to coax the stain out. Dip and scrub, dip and scrub. I could hardly see the stain, which was good. But then, you guessed it, I knocked the cup over and sent a puddle of water sinking rapidly into the carpet. The first word to fly from my mouth was not a pretty one. Long ago I had a very ladylike and demure vocabulary. And then I got married. Military men are not known for mincing words. And then I had children, including three of the male variety. You can guess the rest. My vocabulary is now, on occasion, quite salty. And I must say, in certain circumstances, there is nothing so satisfying as a carefully chosen, vehemently enunciated cuss word.

While I was muttering and mopping, Master C wandered curiously by. " Whatcha doin' ma?" Sniffing the cup, he discerned that there was still a small amount of water in the bottom. So he inserted a delicate white paw to test the waters and finding them good, stuck his head in for a drink because, as everyone knows, water always tastes better when it's not in your dish....

Now, where was I? Well, you can see what I mean about wandering and moping and straying off task...

Note to the picky: I did not allow myself the luxury of writing this [playing] until I had vacuumed for several 15 minute segments---three cheers for the flylady! But then I permitted myself a bonus---I came and wrote it at the library---where there are people and books......ahhhhh.

"Bird watching for Cats"

When I brought "Bird Watching for Cats" home from the library the OB laughed. "Are you going to get him his own pair of binoculars now?" he asked. But, indoor cats get bored. How much eating , sleeping, grooming and furniture clawing can you do before life-threatening ennui sets in? True that boxing with the YB, and tearing through the house at breakneck speed with him in hot pursuit is a lot of fun, but, he's not always here. And the older folks? Suffice to say that between cooking and wandering off on their bikes or disappearing into the North, a fellow is sometimes hard pressed to find a lap to curl up in.

So what's a young, playful cat with an enquiring mind supposed to do? Watch birds. Following the advice of the authors, I set up a bird watching window for Master C. The best one was in the bathroom. The sill is low and he's in the habit of sunning himself there anyway. Occasionally a lizard or squirrel happens along. There's a nice maple tree outside and plenty of bushes to provide cover for the birds..... I fished around in the garage and found an old bird house from the YB's boy scout days, filled it with birdseed and hung it in the tree. Next, a hummingbird feeder. Then, for some color, I planted impatiens and begonias in all the spare flower pots I could find and set them under the tree in the shade.

At first nothing happened. But gradually word spread among our feathered friends and we started having visitors: blue ones and red ones; bright ones and dull ones; long tailed and short tailed; speckled and unspeckled. Master. C is fascinated by them all. When he's watching birds he's perfectly still, his entire body a study of focused concentration. And now he's got me addicted too. Late yesterday afternoon we were both at the window, riveted. We watched, fascinated, as a harried mother thrush with a faded, speckled breast gathered some seeds from the feeder, flew to the ground under the tree and popped them into the waiting, wide-open beak of a very fat , very hungry baby thrush. Only the wide open beak and his very new and sprightly speckles gave away the fact that he was a baby. He was just as big as mom! And, apparently, insatiable. She made many more trips to the feeder , then back down to fill the gaping beak, one time even knocking some extra seeds to the ground, then digging around in the leaves to find them again and pop them into Jr.

I'm due for another trip to the library this week. On my list to look for is "Dancing with Cats'.......Master C can hardly wait.....