Cat Dancing

Cats. They own nothing yet they own everything. They pay their way with twining themselves around ankles, purring when curled up next to or being stroked by someone they wish to curl up next to or be stroked by, they take meals presented at regular intervals and expect litterboxes to be cleaned equally regularly. Their idea of "helping with the housework" is giving themselves a bath after they eat, chasing flies and bugs, and making sure that there are adequate clumps of cat-hair scattered about to ensure that the whole place has to be mowed to keep the dust kittens down to a bare minimum. Still, they "own" their favorite places to sleep, a personal bowl at dinner and a place to scratch.

That last thing is often a source of disagreement between the kids and me. My idea of a place to scratch is the scratching posts and, in the spirit of compromise, the raffia runners on the floor of the hall and bathroom and the one on top of the washer/dryer. THEIR idea, however, includes all of mine plus occasionally my already-tattered wing chair, the side of my mattress, and, in Gandhi's case, the metal door to the outside that is next to one of the litterboxes.

I broke down and bought a new scratching post this week. They're expensive, so I don't often have the extra funds to buy a replacement when the one in the house gets shredded and, worse yet, tufts of carpeting are scattered all over the floor, necessitating yet another mowing session with my faithful Oreck. This week, though, I hauled their old standby out the front door, to the puzzled expressions on the faces of all four. Phoebe was especially perplexed, as the top of the cat tree I had just taken out was the last step before she could access the top of the corner cupboard from which she can survey her whole kingdom and hopefully escape from the boys' rambunctiousness when it gets to be too much. The new one was brought in and placed in the same spot the old one had stood, and, within three minutes, three boys were swarming over it like flies on a hunk of meat. Phoebe held off for at least another five before jumping down from the corner cabinet onto the top bed of the tree and thence to the cedar chest and finally the floor. So far, so good.

It took a whole 15 hours for the ribbon and raffia "toy" hanging from one of the beds to be totally eradicated and scattered all over the floor. All that remains of it now is just a chain hanging down with a plastic header that kept it all together. At least the carpeting is still intact.

This morning I sat at my desk writing, accompanied by Sama and Domi who seem to relish the cool feel of the glass top and who stretch out far enough that there's no room for books or much of anything else on the desktop. Phoebe, of course, was in her spot on top of the corner cupboard and Gandhi, well, he was being weird. He was in the middle bed of the cat tree, reaching around the pole connecting the "stories" together, dragging himself out of the bed, around the back of the pole (whereupon his ample posterior hung out in space), then slithering back into the bed he'd just left. He did this several times -- the catly equivalent of a dance, I guess. He seemed to really enjoy it and didn't seem too put off when I laughed (although I covered it by petting and laughing in the direction of his brothers on the desk). It was so unlike Gandhi that I had to laugh; imagine, a cat pole dancing.  After three or four repetitions, he finally settled down to rest up from his endeavors. I guess that reminds me that (1) dignity isn't everything and sometimes precisely what one needs to do is temporarily lose that dignity and just plain do something that feels like fun, and (2) never pass up a chance to take a nap after exerting oneself.

Sounds like a better idea than doing dishes or mowing floors.