Tag: Cats

Conversations with my cat – 29

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This is Chester  He thinks he has managed to slip away without anyone noticing.

He doesn’t realise that we put a special collar on him so that we can hear him coming.

It was supposed to save the birds, stopping him from sneaking up on them, but we don’t let him outside.

Like all cats who have a dash of bravado in them, they don’t realize cars are not meant to be chased, and they are faster than cats think they are.

Or so the last three cats we had thought.  Chester is benefitting from their mistakes.

Not that he can be told.

Still…

He knows it’s reading days, where I need an opinion, and I’m guessing he’s not in the mood.

That’s OK.  I need a change of scenery.  And the chance to improve my surveillance skills.

Maybe I can use that experience in the story.

 

 

Is there a reason to get out of bed?

I sometimes wonder if there is.

Is that depression speaking, or am I just tired from all the late nights?

Unlike most writers, authors and bloggers I don’t have a day job.  You could say it’s one of the benefits of getting old, this retirement thing, but after a while, not having a reason to get out of bed starts working on your subconscious.

The idea of having a job, and going to work, is a good reason to drag yourself out of bed every morning.  And because of this, the idea of sleeping in takes on a whole new meaning.

You know, I’ll just lie here for a few more minutes, and then I’ll get up.  Having turned off the alarm, the eyelids flutter, and before you know it, half an hour had passed, and you wake up in fright, knowing you’re going to be late.

In retirement, that doesn’t happen.  There is no alarm, there is no guilty pleasure in spending those extra minutes in bed.

Of course, this tardiness, or lack of desire could be because I find I do my best writing in the dead of night, often not getting to bed before 2 a.m.   Last night it was a little later because a story I’m working on, one of about 5, came to life with a new idea.

It had been stagnating because it’s part two and whilst I had an idea about where it was going to go, in the end, we’re off in a different direction, and the words flowed.  You just don’t stop writing when you hit a vein.

But this isn’t always the case.  This morning I have an excuse to stay in bed, but most others I don’t.

Perhaps I should find something else to do, something that will give me that same reason I used to have to get up every morning.

Or maybe I should be more organized in my retirement life, you know, set a schedule and do things according to a timetable.  I was never one for being organized, but perhaps it’s time to start.

Just let me lie here for a few more minutes and think about that.

 

Conversations with my cat – 28

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This is Chester.  He thinks it’s still winter.

It’s not, but how do you tell a cat who thinks he knows everything.

Today, we are having a battle over his bed.  The blanket needs washing.  I tell him, in as polite a manner I can muster,m there is an aroma that is bordering on unpleasant.

He tells me he can’t smell anything, and refuses to budge.

I suspect not since he is now used to it.

Not even the tempting offer of stretching out on the end of our bed has any effect.

I guess it’s the time from Plan B.

I give him one last chance.

It’s outright defiance now.

I go down to the laundry, fetch the green bucket, half fill it with hot water, and return.

He’s looking warily at me now, knowing something has changed since he last saw me.

Ah, yes, what’s that bucket for?

CAll me mean, I tell him, but nothing moves faster than a scalded cat.

Not that I would, but I think he now understands the subtle art of compromise.

 

 

A shattered dream, perhaps, or just wishful thinking?

There was time, quite a few years back I had a dream, well, it was more wishful thinking than anything else.

I was going to run a bookshop.  You know, that quaint little storefront in a tucked away little town somewhere by the ocean, where the clientele would be both travelers and locals alike, people who liked to read.

It would have an area set aside, somewhere within the shelves where there would be a fire in winter, and opened windows and fresh air in summer, a place where you could drink coffee or tea, with scones or cake, and read prospective tomes, or start on that purchase you just made.

There would be not only new books but old, second, third or having been through many hands, books with the aroma of time seeping up from every page, hard covered books with crackly spines, pages that have the stains of age.

And perhaps the name of one of its owners scribble on the front page, along with the price, what it cost all those years back when it was new.

Of course, those places still exist, somewhere in the literary universe, but the idea of owning one such establishment now would mean that you had to be independently wealthy, with a pile of money in the bank, because you would not be relying on profits to keep it going.

If I was a successful author, yes, it would make sense, existing in a literary world where I could read, or write, or talk to other readers or writers, or just do nothing.

And, yes, there would have to be a cat.  There’s always a cat, somewhere, sitting in the window and looking out on the world passing by, or curled up by the fire, reliving those halcyon years of mice catching.

Hang on, where had my fairy godmother gone?

Conversations with my cat – 27

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This is Chester.  He knows it’s sheet changing day and he’s waiting.

You know how it goes.  If there’s an opening, he’s in it, rolling around, clawing at the invisible mice that he thinks are hiding at the end of the bed.

He fails to recognize that it’s simply the sheets flapping as they’re being smoothed out.

And telling him to stop being stupid elicits a dumb look that borders on insolence.

There he sits stretched out, between the sheets, where he thinks I can’t get him.

I’m not moving, he says.

You can’t make me.

I’m going to lie here till the snow covers me up.

He even pokes his tongue out at me.

Right!

I fold the sheets over, then over then over, step to the end of the bed, and lift.

Next minute he’s on the floor, a perfect landing on all four paws.

He looks up.  You win this time, but just you wait!

Perhaps I should shut the door to keep him out, but where would be the fun in that.

Conversations with my cat – 26

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This is Chester. He’s being somewhat difficult.

I’m trying to discuss the nuances of a Mexican standoff, a concept I’m sure he is fully aware of.

Except…

He keeps telling me that he’s part Siamese, so how the hell could he be in the middle of a Mexican standoff.

He then says, in a tone that drips sarcasm, I’m not Mexican either, but part British, so would it not be more appropriate to call it a British-Sino standoff?

Wow!

I’m doubting he knows what a standoff is anyway.

And since this encounter started he’s avoided looking me in the eye, except for one condescending as, when I first arrived, as if to say I was interrupting his morning siesta.

I’m wondering if it’s not time to get another cat and update our mouse catching equipment.

Oh, yes, now I’ve got his attention.

New cat, what’s this about a new car?

Have I found his Achilles heel?

We’ll find out next time when I pull the new cat routine on him

Conversations with my cat – 25

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This is Chester.  He’s trying to keep a low profile.

He thinks that he had found a new hiding spot that I don’t know about.

He’s the scoop news, my friend, you leave a trail of cat hair.

But…

That’s not the main reason we need to talk.

He seems to have forgotten what mice are and what his primary job is.  It’s a subject that we seem to discuss a lot these days.

I wonder if that is because he’s 16 years old and now a senior citizen, one who now thinks he can milk the selective memory, selective hearing thing.

That’s my excuse, mate, not yours.

I can see he’s trying to keep that look of contempt off his face, but it’s not working.

You’re the cat, there’s a mouse, get to work.

I leave, shaking my head.  It’s like talking to a brick wall.

 

 

Conversations with my cat – 24

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This is Chester – as you can see, he’s not very happy with me.

I thought I might run the current political climate past him, see what he thinks about watering down gun laws, politicians taking bribes, sorry, campaign donations, and who would make the better leader.

Pity, he said, a cat can’t run the country.

A typical response, I’m guessing, but it does give me a momentary pause to consider the possibility.

Cats sleep all day.

So, it seems, do our politicians.

Cats ignore everything we tell them.

So, it seems, do our politicians.

Cats sit around all day when not sleeping, looking like they’re working, but they’re not.

So, it seems, do our politicians.

Perhaps he’s right, we could no worse having a cat run the country.

Any chance I can be his campaign manager?

 

 

Conversations with my cat – 23

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This is Chester.   He had asked the question; why doesn’t he get to go on holidays

I think we both know the answer to that.

It’s not the first time he’s asked, but this ‘simply forgetting he’s asked before’ is a ruse.

If he asks enough times, maybe…

But…

A few questions first,

Do you often find the sunniest spot, lie down and have a nap?

Hmmm, thinking

Do you only turn up in the dining room at meal times expecting the food to be ready?

Hmmm, thinking

Do you sleep in every morning?

Hmmm, thinking

Do you find your self thinking more about relaxing and less about working?

Same questions as the last time, and same no answer.

I think we both know you’re already and have been for a while, on holiday!

 

 

Conversations with my cat – 22

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This is Chester. He spends a lot of time looking out this window.

He’s keeping an eye of the birds outside.

Or, more to the point, he’s selecting the one he’s going to present to me on the back doorstep.

He missed the briefing when I told him that it was not the cat’s job to catch birds just keep them from eating my lawn seed.

Seems his natural instincts trump my instructions

No problem.

He can’t go outside.

Sorry. Not sorry!