naughty children

I have other pets. I do. Though they’ve been receiving the short end of the attention feed these days as I desperately play nurse to my dear and sick birdies, they have ways of grabbing my attention in short and timely order.

Like today. Finn-Finn, or Fat Cat, as the kiddo affectionately nicknamed him (the Fat Cat Club still convenes occassionally), pulled a fast one on me by digging a hole in the screen door and sneaking out for some sort of adventure. I can’t believe he managed to squeeze his fluffy bulk through that puny corner hole (he’s loved for his charm, not ambition for a reason) , but where there’s a will, there’s a way, right? Finn is also not characteristically distinguished in will, either. This little experiment is an abberation. So he wasn’t gone long. Of course he wasn’t. He forgot his kibble. Finn does not forage.

Naughty boy. He’s the senior among the menagerie at 12+ years in age, but the petulant child among us all. Gorgeous. Insouciant. L’enfant Terrible, if you will. A roaming…no, make that ever-lounging, bleating, caterwauling Id. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The amusing moment came when Nelly, who came to us as a semi-stray whom my friend Holly took in, sat on the other side of Finn’s pitiful escape hole and hissed at him from inside when he returned. Nelly, the fearless and merciless hunter, apparently lost her thrill for adventure somewhere when she moved in at chez moi. She probably thought she had it made as she stood sentry beside the screen door, practically gloating at Finn-Finn in the hot sun, but she’ll have to only imagine only-cat status for now, if ever.

Little Nelly, the normal cat (when not terrorizing the poor sweet birds. Not to worry, the birds have been quarantined in a special room for respite), and Finn the Id fight like teenagers. Nothing physical, aside from a swipe here and there and some raised dukes as one or the other passes by. Their warfare is psychological, heavy on glowering glares when either one notes in their running tally that the other one is getting more attention. Actually, Finn glowers, and Nelly gloats. Nelly preens as she adds up and Finn subtracts and sulks. Because for Finn, there is no such thing as too much. There is only never enough. Nelly can subsist on little attention as long as she gets a daily dose in the morning as a special thank you for waking us up. She has strictly banished Finn from the bedroom. Girls only. But Finn has claimed my desk, and takes up a good part of it for the better part of the day (Read: when he’s not chowing down or relieving himself). Nelly teases him by taking my chair as soon as I leave it. I have no comfortable chair to myself in this house! For some reason, the kiddo needs, requires; mind, the entire length of the formerly pristine white couch I was gifted with when I moved here. One arm rest is showing some wear from her perching, as lions do; when they do, on Pride Rock. Everything, everything, becomes something else in her imagination here.

Harold the betta fish is Harold. A constant. Beautiful. All the time. Blowing bubbles and gliding. Eating. Keeping me company beside my computer and putting up with the my daily silly faces and cooing. But it’s good to be Harold.

Which reminds me to get our swimming pass for the summer. I hope the kiddo feels comfortable enough in the water to perhaps accomplish a doggy paddle or a float. I did not until my tweens. Water still leaves me a bit edgy, unless I’m skimming its calm surface alone in a canoe (preferably at dusk), or diving into the deep beneath; silent, weightless and stealthy. Just gliding. Free. Who wants to flail and gasp to get from here to there on the surface? Awkward. That’s not swimming to me. But then, there are few situations in which I like to pant  hard. Water is not one of those.

I have no other place to go with this. So here I will stop and get some fresh air before I pick up the kiddo and let her take a spin on her new two wheeler scooter. Ciao peeps!

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3 Responses to “naughty children”


  1. 1 Doktor Holocaust June 4, 2008 at 7:50 am

    “L’enfant Terrible, if you will. A roaming…no, make that ever-lounging, bleating, caterwauling Id.”

    a cat after my own heart! reminds me of the cat I had as a lad, Fireball, as she was indeed Finn’s soul-sister. She used to ride around on my shoulder, all thirteen pounds of her, with her back legs stretched down my back and her claws dug in like spurs, because walking under one’s own power is for slaves and dogs, not feline royalty.

  2. 2 petitmuse June 4, 2008 at 6:46 pm

    “because walking under one’s own power is for slaves and dogs, not feline royalty.”

    Exactly. Thank goodness there’s only one of him. Nelly’s a little more democratic; grateful.

  3. 3 Doktor Holocaust June 5, 2008 at 6:21 am

    i suspect this Nelly is not fully feline, then. gratitude from a cat is like getting chocolate milk from a stone – it’s cool, but it makes the source highly suspicious.


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